Veiling of the Sun
by thegraytigress
Summary: A twist of fate during the events at Parth Galen leaves Boromir alive and desperately seeking the One Ring. Succumbing to the dark seduction of evil, Boromir joins league with Saruman's forces as Legolas is captured by the Uruk-hai. The rest of the Fellowship struggle to remain together, and the quest to destroy the Ring becomes a more trying journey than any imagined.
1. The Betrayal

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: **Hi, guys! I had a few people ask for this story as well, so here it is. Like "Perchance to Dream", this goes _way _back. Like back before _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King _even came out. Because of that, a lot of this is influenced by the books, as well as my own take on things. I considered rewriting chunks of it to better reflect the imagery in the films, but to be honest, I just don't have the time. Again, Legolas' past and family is not canon-compliant with _The Hobbit,_ but, again, I'm leaving it as is because changing it would fundamentally change this story.

This is entirely AU (obviously :-)), and fairly long, though not quite as long as "Perchance to Dream". No slash. This story features friendship, brotherhood, betrayal, and redemption. Hopefully you enjoy!

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER ONE: THE BETRAYAL**

The forest had become eerily still. He knew it in his bones. There was something horribly amiss. The woods here at Amon Hen had always been quiet, without the soft chatter of animals or the whisper of the breeze caressing the leaves. But a foul tranquility had settled over it, as if it was holding its breath to conceal a darker purpose. The winds had changed, bringing air that stank of ominous ruin. It almost hurt to breathe it.

Gimli stood after a moment of watching the Elf peer distantly into the woods, obviously wondering aimlessly what the fair creature sensed from the nature he so strangely understood. Despite the general distrust between the two races, he had grown to respect Legolas' intuition. More than once during their journey it had proved useful. "What is it, Master Elf?"

The other narrowed deep blue eyes. A soft breeze picked up the golden strands of thick, straight blond hair that fell down his shoulders. "I know not," he answered after a moment. Slowly he placed a slender hand against the rough, wide trunk of a nearby tree. He stood erect a moment, bowing his head. Gimli regarded him doubtfully. "But something is amiss."

The Dwarf grunted and sank rather unceremoniously to his rear on the log behind him. "Strider and Boromir have not been gone long, Legolas. Your senses are too easily excited," he grunted, idly gripping the hard staff of his axe.

"Nay," Legolas said slowly, stepping down from his perch with nimble grace. He closed his eyes. "It is in the air. Do you not feel it?" He released a slow breath. Merry and Pippin abandoned their devouring of their meal, and Sam halted in his nervous twiddling. Legolas opened his eyes and met Gimli's stony gaze. "There is a foul menace afoot. We are in danger here."

Gimli sighed, although his worry betrayed his irritation. Anxiety was plain on his ruddy face and in his stout form. The woods did seem subdued, and Elvish premonitions of this sort were rarely wrong. This was little they could do, though, until their companions returned. Rash actions would only serve to separate the Fellowship further. As it was, this close to Mordor, the thought was quite unpleasant.

They were silent a moment. "Do you suppose Mister Frodo is okay, Legolas?" Sam asked hesitantly. His worry was evident on his face. Tousled and damp hair clung to sweaty skin.

Before the Elf prince could answer, there was the sound of snapping branches behind them. Someone was running towards them. The warriors' actions were instantaneous; Legolas was quick to draw his bow and notch an arrow, Gimli rising beside him and bearing his axe, the blade shining wickedly in the bright afternoon sun.

"_Legolas! Gimli!_" Ahead the trees parted and an extremely winded Boromir exploded through them, his sword drawn. The others lowered their weapons at the sight of their friend. "Orcs have come! Aragorn and Frodo are under attack!"

Those words were enough to spur them into motion. "Come, small ones!" the Dwarf demanded, and the Hobbits scrambled to their feet. They tore up the hill through the trees, following the bouncing form of Boromir ahead. Legolas hesitated only a moment, warnings blaring inside his heart, but he too ran on light feet. Confusion sang inside him. The sense of danger had only become more acute, more focused, and infinitely more frightening. Still, he could make no more of it, for his friends needed him.

Boromir lead the group up a hill, tearing through the trees. In the distance, battle drums, the stampede of feet, and vicious growls grew louder. The Hobbits were struggling to keep pace, but Legolas tarried behind to assure that they were not left unprotected. Finally they reached what appeared to be ruins of an old watch tower. To the left was a steep drop-off, the river rushing loudly below. The sky was bright and warm overhead.

Merry and Pippin collapsed in a fit of heavy breathing at the pinnacle. Sam stood hunched, gasping, his hands on his knees. Gimli glanced around, his face taut with preparedness to fight. Legolas stepped upon the ruins, looking around with quick eyes. Seeing no one, his narrowed gaze fell to Boromir. The son of Gondor had his back to his companions. Legolas winced. Waves of something impure radiated from the man. The evil ran chills up and down his spine. This was not the same warrior before he had respected. Now his foreboding had taken form and revealed its hideous nature. "Boromir…"

The man laughed. The terrible sound cut through the air and through their hearts. "I never dreamed…" The insane chuckle of man too far gone in greed and lust to be reached by logic and loyalty spilled from his lips. "I never dreamed it to be like this!"

He turned suddenly. Merry and Pippin recoiled, surprise on their open faces. Boromir's countenance was twisted savagely. The light of his eyes had been replaced by darkness.

"Where are Frodo and Aragorn?" Gimli demanded angrily, lifting his axe.

Boromir smiled, a cold, vicious grin that, in Legolas' mind, sealed their fate. There was a thunder beyond. Fear welled up inside him. The stench of dirt and blood and sweat invaded his nostrils. There were black bodies moving around them, emerging from the concealment of bushes and branches. Orcs, hefting vicious clubs, bows, spears, and swords. These were hulking, tall beasts with strange white hands painted upon their armor and faces. Legolas ripped around, glancing frantically, counting quickly. Too many. And they were surrounded.

"Run, Merry, Pippin," Legolas said quietly, backing up slowly, forcing them to as well.

The Hobbits looked terrified, betrayed. "Boromir, what's wrong with you?" Merry asked, his voice wavering.

Boromir only grinned like a fool having finally found a long sought after treasure, and the Orcs attacked.

"_Run!_" Gimli ordered, shoving the terrified Sam back down the hill from whence they came before whirling to face an oncoming snarling Orc. Legolas drew back on his bow with lightning grace and quickly shot an approaching monster. The arrow sunk deep into its forehead and the beast gave a vicious howl before falling. He watched only to see his shot land, though, before firing at the next advancing demon. "Legolas!" Gimli cried, his axe black with blood. The Elf darted a glance at the Dwarf and realized quickly the only option was a retreat. The fight would be futile, and their first objective had to be finding Aragorn and Frodo.

Casting one last accusatory glance at Boromir, the Elf turned and sprinted after the others. The screaming behind him grew louder and closer. He tore through the woods, his acute awareness of the forest guiding his flying feet precariously over rocks, branches, ruts, and holes. His heart thundered as his quick eyes analyzed the blurry surroundings. He tracked the gray cloaks of Merry and Pippin. They halted, Gimli not far behind, in front of a stone wall. Beyond the wall was a sharp decline, and then the forest spread on. There was a gap in the middle of it, where weather had corroded the rocks. The Elf leapt down beside them and then skidded to a stop. He peered over the stone structure.

There ahead was a wall of Orcs, an army of demons and monsters. They stood, shouting to each other in vile snorts, scattering throughout the forest like insects. They were looking, scouting. Searching. Searching for the Fellowship with a blood lust. He felt cold chills crawl down his back. His breath caught in his throat as he beheld Saruman's force. Deep inside, for the first time since the journey had commenced, he felt his hope waver. How could a threat of this size sneak up on them, on him? Had his senses been dulled by his sorrow? Were Aragorn and Frodo's lives already the forfeit for his mistakes?

He banished guilt. He would need a clear head now. Grabbing each of the Hobbits, he pulled them flush to the cold wall, hiding them behind the concealing old rock. Gimli did the same, lowering his axe. The sound of rushed breathing was so loud, but it could not drown out the shouting of the vicious Orcs. "Go," he said quietly, looking to his comrades, feeling the ground quake with the approaching stampede of the army. Shouts of Dark Speech ran down the hill, chasing them. They were completely surrounded. The river was not far, though. The only choice afforded them was to reach the boats and escape into Anduin. The forest now held only a promise of death.

Merry and Pippin glanced at him with frightened, desperate eyes. The latter looked around, his face pale with terror. "Where's Sam?" he asked quickly, drawing the Elf's attention. Legolas turned and scanned the group quickly. The loyal Hobbit was not among them. During the frantic flight, they had been separated.

The Elf cringed inside and drew a long breath. He loathed the idea of leaving their friends behind, abandoning them to face this massive evil force alone. But they had no choice. "We cannot stay here," he stated simply, clenching his bow tightly. "We must reach the river."

"What of Strider, Legolas?" Merry reminded, concerned. "And Frodo? We can't just leave them!"

The words hurt him anew, even though the horrible thoughts were already storming through his mind. But he pushed his fear and worry aside and willed his body into motion. He drew arrows from his quiver and jammed the points into the soft soil of the forest floor. Gimli growled. "The Elf's right. If we tarry here, we will only fall into darkness. No help to our friends will we be then."

Legolas nocked an arrow and inched closer to the gap. "Go now," he ordered quickly, glancing back at the group. "Before we lose this chance!" The Hobbits hesitated a moment more before breaking into a run back towards the river, following Gimli as he tore through the thick woods. Legolas let the shot fly true into the advancing enemies and it caught an Orc full in the chest, sending him reeling back into his companions. Like lightning, he drew another from the dirt and fired. Over and over again, like a machine, until that which he had thrust into the leaves was depleted. When his concentration broke, he saw that that his friends were lost in the maze of wood. He hoped he had been able to provide adequate cover for their escape. The advancing army was nearly upon him. Now he turned and ran in their tracks.

Inside, his heart burned at the darkness he had felt from Boromir. He had understood immediately what had happened. The man had fallen into shadow, overrun by greed and ambition. The Fellowship had fractured. He worried for Frodo and Aragorn. He knew not the lengths to which Boromir may have gone to win his treasure.

Ahead he saw the shore. The Hobbits had scrambled into one of the boats. Gimli was waist deep, pushing the other away from the bank. "Legolas!" he shouted, seeing the Elf gracefully sprint through the woods. "Hurry!" Then he hefted himself into the canoe, the vessel precariously tipping with the weight.

The young Elf pushed all the speed he could into himself, legs pumping, body flying. Arrows were whizzing past him to sink violently into trees or the ground. He could feel the enemy behind him, their wretched breaths upon his neck. _Faster_, his mind urged as he bounded to the shore. _Faster!_

He was not twenty steps from the bank when he felt a blinding pain at his shoulder. The force toppled him and he fell hard, rolling into the dirt and leaves. He gave a loud cry as he struck a tree, the solid surface unforgiving to his body. His bow fell from limp fingers as he slumped to the ground.

Pippin watched thunderstruck as the arrow struck the Elf from behind, sending him reeling. The Orcs howled in glee. Merry looked to Gimli, desperately searching the Dwarf's face for an answer, a course of action. There was none.

Legolas' daze lasted only but a moment, but it was time enough for the pursuers to reach him. Ignoring his pain, he reached behind and ripped the arrow from his shoulder with a splurt of hot blood. Then he clambered to his feet, his usual elegance splintered with his hurt. Helplessly, he looked out the boats. He would not make it, and they could not wait for him. The realization stabbed him with fear. "Go!" he shouted. "Find Frodo!"

Merry shook his head violently. "We can't leave him!" He grabbed an oar. "We have to go back!"

The Dwarf stared at Legolas, and they shared a sad, brief look. Gimli opened his mouth to protest vehemently that the Elf not sacrifice himself like this, but the resolution in Legolas' blue eyes silenced his words. He released a long breath, and the endless moment ended. Gimli growled in anger and frustration, looking away, and began to row quickly. "There is no choice now!" he shouted. "Row, little ones, or his sacrifice will be for naught!" His oar chopped through the water with violence and furious power.

The Hobbits were arguing, shouting denials and demanding that they not abandon their comrade. But then they too began to row, as if realizing the Dwarf's assertion to be true.

Their cries grew more distant as they pushed their boats further into the lake, separating salvation from the lone Elf. Legolas closed his eyes for a moment to steady himself, at once terrified and relieved that his friends were escaping.

But the respite was brief, for the Orcs were upon him.

The Elf turned then, drawing his long knives from his back with speed unparalleled. He thrust forward, stabbing an Orc quickly, and then dodged the sloppy attack of another. But there were simply too many, and his injury retarded him.

The battle was long-lasting and he slew many, but more flooded down the hill to the river. An impossible stampede of evil. They wore at him, focusing on his injured side. Finally his strength failed him, and he stumbled. His shoulder was flaring in hot agony as he shoved the wretched, stinking Orcs away from him, staggering. But it was not enough. A staff struck his legs hard, knocking them from beneath him. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, the sky spinning madly over him. In his moment of dizzy nausea, one long knife was kicked from his hand. He slashed with the other, rolling to escape them, but a boot caught him across the chin. A sharp tip of a sword came to rest over his heaving chest.

The Orc sickly smiled, if the monster could do such a thing. "Elf…" It hissed gleefully.

Cold terror washed over Legolas. Panic gnawed inside at his resolve. He had willingly accepted this fate to save what remained of the Fellowship. Still, the thought of what they might do to him curdled his blood. The suffering of Elves at the hands of hateful Orcs was the substance of nightmares. His fear spurred energy into his beaten body.

"Aragorn!" he cried in desperation, raising his voice to the trees. "_Aragorn!_" Only the Orcs laughing answered his plea. He did not have the time to think further, though, or to mount an offense, for as he struggled up a crushing force slammed into the side of his head. Intense pain flowered through his body, and he tumbled into shadow.

* * *

><p>Isildur's heir raised his head at the sound. He had heard the battle drums and smelled the wretched stench of Orcs. From behind a wall of trees, the stealthy ranger had watched the army scatter and charge. But his path back to the camp was blocked by the troops, and he had delayed his return, believing Frodo to be in mortal danger. He had seen the strange glint invading Boromir's gaze and sensed the danger it suggested. His search had yielded nothing and he had grown frustrated. Upon hearing the army, he knew it would be folly to try and return to his friends. Rather, he decided it was more important to locate Frodo and defend him.<p>

That sound plagued him. Then, only a breath later, again it called to him, echoing through the forest as though the trees of Amon Hen were sorrowfully relaying a grotesque message. The voice was filled with panic, desperation, and fear. This second time he recognized it.

"Legolas," he whispered. His heart clenched in cold terror and he immediately cursed himself for leaving the camp. Legolas and Gimli were capable warriors, of that he was sure. Still, against an army of Orcs, they would have benefited from his sword. Without Boromir's skills or his aid, it was only the Elf and Dwarf left to protect the Hobbits.

Slow terror crawled in the pit of his stomach. _An Elf and a Dwarf. _ Orcs cared not for Dwarves. The rank memory of the carnage they had only recently witnessed within the mining Dwarven city of Dwarrowdelf once again assaulted his senses. Gimli would be overwhelmed by them. Worse, though, he knew was the hatred of the Orcs for their beautiful and fair Elf cousins. He knew what they would do to Legolas if he should fall into their clutches.

Fear for his good friends spurred him into action. Drawing his sword, he charged back towards their camp, caring not for the danger that undoubtedly stood between him and his destination, anger twisted his features taut, his voice raised in a battle cry.

Aragorn ran quickly, cutting through the trees, ignoring the stiff aches of his abused body. As he charged forward, his mind raced despite his efforts to keep concentrated. What had happened? How could such a vile chaos have erupted under his watchful eye? He ground his teeth together in fury. Legolas had warned him, but he had ignored it. _"A shadow and a threat have been growing in my mind. Something draws near. I can feel it."_ He had cast the Elf's concerns aside and ignored his advice. His heart ached to find a way to remedy what his own ignorance had caused!

Somehow, though, he knew he was already too late. The woods had grown still again, silent with a false serenity that prickled his gooseflesh. Aside from his rushed breath and thundering heart, there was only the rustle of the leaves. Legolas' cries had ceased. He clenched his hand tighter around the hilt until his palm ached and whispered a harsh, Elvish curse. His heart burned with boiling rage. _Think,_ his mind quickly chastised against the fire of his fury. _You know his tracks. _ It was true. Legolas was a stealthy fighter with light feet and quick reflexes borne from both centuries of practice and innate talent. Many a hot afternoon in Rivendell years ago they had practiced tracking on the other in silly games. He had learned then the marks of his friend's swift feet.

Finding them now, in this maze of heavy Orc plodding, would be a difficult task. But no other choice was availed to him.

A twig snapped behind him. In the silence, it was deafening. He ripped around, bringing Andúril to bear in a howl. The figure behind him screamed, stumbled back, and raised his hands to block the blow.

"Strider, _no!_" came a quivering voice, muffled by sleeves.

Aragorn cursed himself for his stupidity and immediately sheathed the offending blade. "Forgive me, Frodo!" The terrified creature before him did not look up, bowing his head, tousled, damp hair littered with dirt. Worried, the man dropped to his knees before the small Hobbit's shivering body. Grasping the other's arms, he gently pulled them from his face. "Are you hurt?"

Frodo sniffled, his pale cheeks wet with tears and sweat. A bleeding wound painted his temple, matting the locks of his hair. Leaves clung to his form. Wide blue eyes spoke of unfathomable terror and unspeakable guilt. The ultimate betrayal. "He took it!" he gasped weakly, his hoarse voice laced with panic. Small hands balled desperately into Aragorn's tunic, twisting the fabric wildly. "I – I tried to stop him! I swear I did, Aragorn! But I wasn't strong enough!"

Something inside Aragorn broke in anguish. Whatever confusion as to the source of the disaster that had befallen them that had clouded his mind disappeared with the painful light of understanding. Still, his shocked soul shook in denial and he squinted at the broken form before him. "Who, Frodo? Who did this to you?"

Frodo could not answer, sobbing woefully as he was so taken with despair, but it was not needed at any rate. Aragorn pulled the distraught Hobbit into his arms. He knew what had happened. He knew he had not been strong enough to stop it. He knew who had betrayed them.

"Boromir," he said softly.

He was torn between cursing his brethren for his weakness and mourning for his loss. The allure of the One Ring had been too much for him after all. Galadriel had warned them all one of them would falter. Even though he had tried to ignore it, he had known inside that his friend would be the one to fall under its curse.

The punishment for his folly was great.

He held the sobbing Frodo tightly, finding no words to appease their consuming anguish. Gandalf was in shadow. Boromir had betrayed them. Frodo had been devastated. Legolas was in the hands of the enemy. Gimli and the other Hobbits undoubtedly were helplessly fleeing or dead. And he himself… he was lost.

The Fellowship had fallen.


	2. Fight for the Ring

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER TWO: FIGHT FOR THE RING**

Legolas was dreaming of Mirkwood. He loved his home with an intensity that swelled in his heart. Mirkwood was a glorious place. Only a day's hard ride east from Rivendell, it welcomed its visitors with an embrace of light and nature. Its forests were grand, brimming with life that seemed to rest in a perpetual balance, undisturbed by time. The trees were massive and ancient, sharing with each other and all that loved them an understanding that added a verdant love to a life. Forever it lingered in the greens of the freshest spring spun with the gold of the sun.

How he longed to run among the trees again, to perch atop their soft branches, surrounded by the green treasure of their leaves, and feel the pulse of nature around him. This longing was a part of him always, directing his weary feet home after many a travel. His mother had named him for the trees, after all, a divine premonition that her youngest child would fall in love with the forest guiding her spirit. Nothing could ever replace his love for Mirkwood, his home, his land. As its prince, he vowed to protect it. As its son, he longed for it.

In his dreams, he smiled. He thought of Aragorn. When they both had been younger they had frequented the glens of the forest often with a small scrape of luncheon. There they had played, slept, and dreamt. His friend had once asked him as they had lain beneath the soft warmth of a midday sun, worn from a game of tracking, why the groves of Mirkwood seemed so vibrant. He had explained it simply: _"The trees here have a spirit all their own. Our lives are not so different from theirs, really."_

Years later, Aragorn had fallen in love with Arwen, and he visited Mirkwood less often. Still, when the heir to Gondor returned, old habits resumed. The most steadfast of friends never wavered.

_Aragorn…_

His consciousness came crashing into his head, and his eyes snapped open. He saw the forest floor below him, jolting up and down nauseously. His skull wracked painfully, bile burning at the back of his throat, as everything dizzily spun. Closing his eyes was the only means to alleviate the painful disorientation. He slipped back into the darkness again.

When the discomforts of his body ripped away that peace, he opened his eyes once more. This time he realized why the forest floor seemed so unsteady. He was being carried. The blood had rushed to his head, his pulsing headache settling into a dull agony behind his eyes. His blond locks hung limply down around his face. He felt drying blood trickle down his temple. A few drops fell to the leaves below. Those, he realized, had come from his shoulder. As if in sudden recollection, the wound burned in fiery pain. He could feel wet heat seeping down his front, running from the back wound down over his shoulder to stain his tunic. A quick assessment left him reeling in panic and painful memory. He had been thrown over a large Orc's shoulder, the beast's fetid scent assaulting his senses. The bony shoulder plate was digging uncomfortably into the Elf's abdomen, making drawing breath a trying ordeal. He felt the Orc's beefy and strong arm wrapped around his thighs, holding him in place. Slowly his fingers traced the coarse ropes tightly manacling his wrists. His mouth, too, had been bound with a musky cloth that smelled of sweat.

Legolas exhaled slowly, trying to regain his composure and still his erratic heart. He closed his eyes, finding his stomach unsettled in fear, anger, and panic. It would do him well to remain still. The Orcs had not slain him. The notion was at once relieving and alarming. It meant they had some other plans for him. He suppressed a shudder and directed his desperate and racing thoughts elsewhere. When they stopped, he would try to escape. He did not dare test the knots binding his hands behind his back. From the lack of weight upon his shoulders he knew immediately they had stripped him of his weapons. However, it was unlikely they had thought to search his boots. In his left was a small hunting knife. Once they set him down, a moment's distraction would be all he needed to find the blade and free himself.

Time seemed to progress slowly. Forever the army walked. He kept his eyes closed and body limp, despite the Orc's rough jostling of him. Although sleep called his weary and abused form, he would not oblige it. The pain had settled into a fierce hurt that plagued incessantly, but he struggled to disregard it. He would need all his strength to save himself.

Finally they stopped. He felt the Orc beneath him breathing heavily. There was rustling and harsh words he could not understand. He strained his ears for the slightest sound, fighting to keep still and maintain the façade. Another form, a large one, came to stand nearby. "Has the Elf awakened?" came a sick, deep voice in slurred Dark Speech.

"Yes," answered his captor, "I smell his fear."

Terror turned his blood cold. A grunted chuckle. "Drop him."

Suddenly he was falling. Legolas' eyes snapped open as he hit the unforgiving ground hard. His shoulder screamed in fiery agony, and he could not stifle a cry. He lay there a moment, gasping, struggling to find the strength to defend himself in the ebbing waves of pain. Then a pointed boot rammed into his chest, ripping him to his back and crushing his hands. He gave a weak yelp again, feeling his ribs bend and bruise from the force. Dazed and breathless, he only groaned when the Orc reached down and grabbed his tunic, pulling him up. The yellow, monstrous eyes glowed and the hideous cracked face smiled. "Little Elf…" he said in sloppy Westron. "I will enjoy your suffering."

A glint came from the monster's belt and Legolas closed his eyes, preparing for the blow. It never came. In stead, the Orc cut the ropes around his ankles. The pressure relieved from his hobbled feet, the Elf prince stumbled back. Another Orc was already behind him and grabbed his hair viciously. Legolas only whimpered as he was dragged forward, tears burning in his eyes. His feet were kicked from beneath him and he fell roughly to his knees, the Orc's dirty claw tangled in his abundant hair. The hand yanked down, forcing his eyes skyward.

His anger boiled.

"Son of Thranduil," Boromir announced almost joyfully. The man towered over him, grinning. "So unlike an Elf of your skill to allow himself to be captured. Are you angry, dear Legolas?" Boromir laughed and turned. The Orc holding him bodily hefted him to his feet and shoved him forward after the man.

All around him was the army. He had been taken to a clearing he did not recognize, but even pained, his senses told him they were taking him west in the direction of Isengard. He hid the terror the thought invoked deep inside him. All around him were hungry eyes. He heard Orcs yelling and grunting, fighting over a meal, brawling mindlessly. It was then his hopes were dashed. How could he escape when he was completely surrounded by Saruman's forces?

He felt another force watching him, this one weak, innocent, and terrified. Without directing his gaze, he paid his attention to a leafy shrub in the wall of trees to which he was being led. The sense was familiar. Frightened but fiercely loyal and honest. The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled. _Samwise Gamgee. _ Deep inside he could only think a soft Elvish prayer that the Hobbit run or remain stealthily out of sight. If the Orcs were to find him now, after winning their treasure, they would surely kill him.

* * *

><p>Hidden behind the thick, leafy brush, Sam watched with wide and terrified eyes as the Orcs led the bound Legolas through their camp. The Elf had been injured; bright red blood stained his brown tunic, caking the cloth to his shoulder and flank in a great stain. Still the young archer walked with pride, holding his head high despite his dire condition, and Sam felt a strange sense of envy wash over him at observing the Elf's ever-stoic composure. Many times before had he admired the endurance of his Elvish comrade, enamored with the elegant strength of the ancient race.<p>

Legolas did not seem to notice him, though, and he was at once troubled and relieved by that. His stomach had become great, burning pit of terror and worry that sped his pulse and breath and clenched his heart. If the Elf had been captured, what then had become of the others? He clenched a white and shaking fist into the soil below him, hot tears stinging in his eyes. For the foul and wretched state of things his soul quaked! Would his cowardice later be the sole cause behind the suffering of his friends?

And Frodo. Dear Frodo. When the Orcs had attacked, he had set off in a panicked run, and all he could concern himself with was finding his ward. But Frodo, a good, loyal friend for so many years, was lost to him in the maze of leaf and trunk. The army of demons swarming around him forced him into fleeing, which he did with a heavy heart, flying blindly and helplessly through the woods. Forever, it seemed, he ran, hiding behind trunks and rocks, gasping when his path became blocked. He had felt like a horrible and selfish coward as he cringed in fear at the vicious shouts and cries around him. When he had happened upon this clearing no more than a few minutes prior, he had crawled to this bush and watched as the Orcs tore at each other. The black mud of his guilt and horror threatened to suffocate him, and he sobbed quietly. Paralyzed with exhaustion and unsure of how to escape the situation, he had only sat and watched, praying that some grace of fate would deliver him from this wretched state and return him to the Fellowship.

He stifled a wail of despair. This was a far cry from the salvation he sought.

The Orcs dragging Legolas along growled in rage when the Elf slowed his steps. Sam bit his lower lip hard enough to draw blood in fear as the butt of a spear rammed into the Elf's stomach, knocking the wind from his form. All that escaped the Prince of Mirkwood was a mere grunt of pain as he stumbled and fell, crushing his legs beneath him. Sam watched in horror as one of the beasts twisted a claw into the Elf's abundant blond hair. "Get up!" an Orc roughly demanded, hauling him to his feet. Legolas stumbled and coughed through the gag binding his mouth. The Hobbit yearned to do something, anything at all that would aid his threatened friend. But his courage once again evaded him, and he could only witness the brutality in immobile fear.

A shadow fell over the bush, a cold aura that froze Sam's heart and made his flesh crawl in disgusted fear. An immense evil had assumed the form of a man he had once trusted and respected. Sam held his breath, his eyes slowly tracing Boromir's form as he towered over his captive. He nearly choked when the man backhanded the hobbled Legolas, sending the Elf once again sprawling. And the Orcs cheered in elation.

There was a glint in the blaring sun as the son of Gondor turned to the massive army, a flash of gold that was bright and painful. Tears blurred Sam's vision. The One Ring glowed in the sun as it dangled from Boromir's gloved hand, still attached to the silver chain of Frodo's necklace. Confusion riddled Sam and for a moment he could only breathe the shock was so great. Then his heart began to pound. His mind raced with thousands of frightened and panicked thoughts. He tried to deny this to himself, putting forth all his efforts into ignoring the horrible truth. It pushed at his mind with knives and daggers laced with the poison of despair. Boromir had _taken_the Ring. Boromir had betrayed them all.

Sam sobbed for Frodo, swallowing the wail in his throat. He felt his heart bleed. Denial burned inside. He wanted to scream, to howl, to do something to rid himself of the horrible dirt he felt cover his soul. But all he could was silently weep for them all.

The world shifted in and out of a blurry focus for Legolas as he blinked tears from his eyes, but the flash of gold was alarming enough to snap him from his stupor. The Ring glowed menacingly in the sunlight as though made of fire. Its beauty was stunning and oppressive. The simple elegance of its curves drew eyes into hypnosis, the mind lulled by the waves of power and seduction radiating from it. For Elves, it spoke not of glory and strength, but of black tidings and repulsive death. Legolas had to avert his eyes, the evil that was reaching to caress him turning his stomach.

Boromir smiled gleefully. "A marvelous treasure," he whispered, a sick reverence in his voice. His hand snapped forward and grabbed Legolas' chin tightly, forcing his eyes upward. The horrible sight of the One Ring burned into his gaze. "Surely you must feel it." The Elf swallowed uncomfortably. He did _feel_ it, though the emotions spawned by the Ring screaming in his soul were far from the pleasant allure that drew the hearts of men. Nausea clenched him, causing the bright blue sky overhead to spin. Thousands of senses of blood and death raked over his light. A horrible terror crawled along his mind, eliciting a rush of his blood, and he closed his eyes. "It is a glorious power," Boromir whispered in obvious awe, palming the Ring, "like the warm rays of the sun filling your heart. Such a beautiful bliss." Legolas gave a cry of surprise and fear when Boromir pressed the horrid trinket against the pale flesh of his cheek. He tried to wriggle away, but the man's grip was far too tight. The Ring seemed to burn through his skin to his soul, the contact with it spreading over his body with a fiery rage that sundered his senses. He thought he might pass out; he nearly yearned for it. "Beautiful. Can you feel it?"

One of the Orcs howled something vile in Dark Speech, and Boromir dropped his grip. Legolas sagged in relief as the horrible torture ended, gasping for breath. Boromir smirked then turned to the monsters beside him. Legolas swallowed his nausea, sensation slowly returning to his body. Pain and heat. Blood. His hand was stinging, and the memory crashed back into his head with pounding insistence. When the Orc had felled him, he had made sure to land upon his left boot and had quickly and inconspicuously drawn his concealed knife, which he now held clenched into his palm. He hoped his captors had not noticed this small move, nor the relief on his face when he found they had not taken this last weapon from him.

Then Boromir raised his voice to the troops. "Legions of Saruman!" he shouted. The clamor did not quiet. "Pay heed, warriors!" The great disharmony ended. Boromir raised his hands to the sky. Clenched in one was the Ring, dangling precariously and glistening wickedly on Frodo's necklace. "We have won our prize!"

A lurid, guttural cheer went through the crowd. Legolas steeled himself, drawing slow breaths, as the Orcs around him abandoned their watch, taken with the euphoric roar. Now was his chance. There was one on either side, and another, larger brute, stood behind him, his grubby fingers still tangled in the Elf's hair. His pulse racing, he fumbled slowly with the blade until its sharp edge rested against the thick ropes. His hand was slick with blood, but his grip was sure as he worked the knife against the bindings quickly. "The Great Sauron himself will revel in our triumph!" Boromir shouted.

Forever he seemed to saw, his fingers slippery and his heart thundering. The Orcs were celebrating in vicious and violent shouts. Boromir was proclaiming dreams of domination. Legolas ignored it all, concentrating without falter on freeing himself. He had to get the Ring. He could not allow it to fall into evil!

The ropes gave. Legolas wasted not a breath, for the element of surprise would fade quickly, and ripped around, dismissing the pain at his scalp as the rash movement yanked at his hair. He slammed the knife upward into the abdomen of the Orc at his rear, causing the beast to howl in pain and shock. Ripping it free, he then jumped up before the others could react. The Ring sang a dangerous lyric of glinting sunlight, and he loathed its sight. But he would not fail.

Boromir was caught unaware as the Elf thundered to him, bloody hand outstretched. All of time slowed, as if teetering between uncertain and ambiguous paths, waiting for its children to decide the turn of events. Then Legolas' fingers touched the chain and closed tightly about the Ring, snatching it from Boromir's weak grasp. The Elf hit the ground hard, jarring his injured body. The Ring felt horrible in his hand, aching in his bones and blood, and he winced against its vile caresses. Concentrating on what he must do, he stood and sprinted towards the woods, towards the shrub where he knew Sam to be hiding.

He tore through, ignoring the pain in his chest and shoulder and the branches that snagged his hair and clothing, and grabbed Sam's arm. The alarmed Hobbit stumbled but ran. "Mister Legolas!" he cried as they tore through the woods. The sound of the army was close behind them. Still, he did not stagger, pulling Sam along as he ran. Discounting the pain allowed him to put distance between them and the army. Even so, he despondently knew that was only postponing the inevitable. The Orcs had smelled his blood. They would track him to his death. Even if his body could endure the grueling run back to the camp, he would only bring the wrath of the enemy down upon his friends.

If his friends were still alive.

_Such thoughts only bring agony and worry, so dwell not! _Desperation filled the Elf prince as he felt his strength wan in body and mind. No other choice was apparent to him. His life was inconsequential compared to success of the Fellowship. His heart burned in fright and panic, but he forced his composure to be steadfast. What else could he do?

There was a large fallen tree ahead. He pulled the small creature up over it and tucked tight to the concealing trunk. Then he ripped the cloth from his mouth. "Take the ring, Sam," he gasped, finding each breath stabbing him with hurt.

Sam looked pale and terrified. He had obviously been weeping. "Mister Legolas, I-"

The Elf took his small, dirty hand and dropped the Ring to its palm. He resisted the urge to shudder in relief at being released from the evil touch. Curling long fingers over Sam's, he forced the Hobbit to grasp the demonic treasure. "You must take it, Sam. Return it to Frodo!" A sharp agony from his shoulder brought fear to his heart and then tears to his eyes. Oh, but for the forlorn pain he felt now, faced with such an inevitable disaster! However he only swallowed heavily and kept his black forebodings to himself, holding the Hobbit's horrified gaze. He had to be strong for them all. His weakness would become the other's. "You must, Sam!"

The Hobbit paled as if in sudden realization. All Legolas could do to erase his pain was offer a weak smile that did not carry to his eyes. The thunder of approaching demons grew ever louder. "I will be fine," he assured quietly. The lie burned in his throat and salty moisture stung his eyes. His will was crumbling, but he forced the final words from his dry mouth. "Your first duty is to the Ring and to Frodo. As long as Frodo has the Ring, the Fellowship is strong. I will not give up."

Sam's face broke in sniffling tears, but he said no more. He nodded weakly and then crawled away slowly, scrambling across the leaves. When he looked back, Legolas nodded resolutely. After the Hobbit wiped away tears and rose into a run.

The young Elf watched Sam until his form was indiscernible among the foliage. Closing his eyes, he whispered a quiet Elvish prayer for the Hobbit's protection. Then he gripped his bloody knife tighter.

A shout in Dark Speech. Directions and orders. They had caught his scent on the still air. Fear churned within him, but he knew he could no longer run. His right shoulder was numb in misery, his body aching and cold from its exertions. He would face them. There was no chance of retreat. His soul quaked at the thought of what he would endure when they found only him, the Ring gone from his being.

They were very close. The trees screamed a warning to him, one he forced himself to disregard, and he stilled his charged breath. He dared not look up. His mind ran with possibilities, but he fearfully knew each to be folly. He did not have the power within him to beat them now. He gritted his teeth. That did not mean he would not fight.

There was a roar above, so loud it boomed through his ears. He yelped in pain as a gruesome hand ripped down and grabbed his wounded shoulder. The vicious meaty paw gave a hard yank, and he was pulled up from his cover and hurled to the ground roughly.

He closed his eyes against the blaring pain and spinning sun only momentarily, but it was enough to rip the last chances of defense from him. A boot smashed into his wrist, crushing the small, thin limb into the forest floor. Weak fingers dropped the blood-slicked knife. He blindly struggled against them as they dragged him to his knees. The Orcs snarled and snapped, one harshly restraining his arms behind his back. He drew in breath after painful breath, fighting to fill his burning lungs.

He blinked tears from his eyes as rapid footsteps filled his ears. Then Boromir appeared overhead, his face red with uncontrollable rage. Legolas groaned as the man decked him viciously, ripping his face to the side. "Where is it?" he demanded. A vile insanity of a deranged passion filled his tone as he towered over his captive.

The Elf swallowed warm, bitter blood in disgust, the world slipping in and out of focus. Boromir's eyes burned in fury as he struck the Elf again. The force of the blow knocked Legolas' body hard to the left, and the Orcs tightened their grips. "Damn you, where is it? Answer me!" A kick connected with his side, smashing into already bruised ribs. He coughed as he fought to breathe.

Frantically, Boromir grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward from the Orc's restraining holds. Legolas kicked at the man as he pinned him to the ground, powerful fingers ripping at the Elf's bloodied and dirtied tunic. Over and over again, Boromir cursed him and chanted "Where is it?" in a blood lust.

When his desperate search revealed nothing but the Elf's bare and bruised chest, Boromir leaned back up slowly. He scrubbed a frantic hand over the stubble of his chin, sweat beading upon his brow. A slow breath escaped him, as though he were struggling to control his temper. The cold sadistic hardness returned to his eyes as he leaned down over the fallen Elf once more. "You _will_ tell me, Prince of Mirkwood."

Defiance burned in blue eyes. "I would rather die," Legolas hissed back angrily.

They glared at each other for an endless, tense moment, the world closing about them. Each was strong. Each was proud. Then Boromir's face snapped in anger, and he met Legolas' comment with another cruel cuff to the Elf's cheek, leaving the side of his face red and abused, smearing blood from a split lip. Then the son of Gondor turned. "Comb this area!" He stalked away, leaving his captive gasping at the feet of the Orcs. "Strip him and search him," ordered he. "Beat him until he talks."

The Orcs laughed their understanding and looked hungrily to their prisoner. Legolas' eyes widened, his heart still in panic. When the first blows landed, when the hands tore at his clothes, he could not stifle his screams.


	3. To Follow

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER THREE: TO FOLLOW**

Aragorn searched the forest for sounds to appease his concern, but again the woods were quiet. He scanned the trees around him, then the floor, but instinct was only futile in this case; the tracks of the Orc army were so numerous and consuming that he would never be able to spot the nimble feet of an Elf.

Gimli watched the man intently, his heart churning with rage, worry, and despair. He reached forward and grasped the other's arm. "I fear admitting this to myself, Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he began quietly, "but they would not let us easily find their prize."

Aragorn turned to look upon the Dwarf, the other's small, ruddy face holding only compassion and sorrow. Then he bowed his head, his heart heavy. "I worry that they have killed him," he said sadly and softly. A silent moment passed, where battered warriors spoke in ways not easily comprehensible to those that have never wielded a weapon in battle. "But I worry more that they have not."

The Dwarf squeezed his arm reassuringly, but they both knew the strength to be false. Orcs were not kind to the Elves they kidnapped or captured. Few lived to regale the horrors of their captivity, and those that did were maimed and marred beyond recognition. The thought of such a horrible fate befalling Legolas twisted his stomach.

Gimli sighed and then turned back to the camp. Behind them sat Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, the latter two working diligently at cheering up the former. Frodo rested upon an old log, a blanket salvaged from their supplies wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes were blank, his face downcast. Not long ago, what remained of the Fellowship had been reunited. Gimli and the two Hobbits had rowed a bit upstream, remaining in the river long enough to elude the passing Orc army. By chance Aragorn and Frodo had come to the shore not far from their old camp and not long after they had returned from the water. The ranger had been more than dismayed to find Legolas not among them, the fact confirming the fears that the cries before had borne unto him. Gimli had first been angered and then dismayed by the news of Boromir's betrayal and the loss of the Ring. As if hearts were not already weary with toil enough, Sam's disappearance had only served to crush what remained of their morale.

The sun was setting. An unpleasant chill was settling over the woods, and the trees seemed to droop as though their limbs had grown weary from the trauma of the day. Long shadows grew longer still with the slow dusk. Aragorn chewed the inside of his cheek and looked ahead, folding his arms across his breast. Indecision gnawed at his resolve, and for a moment he felt completely helpless against the ebb and flow of the melancholy consuming their group.

Then he turned and drew his cloak tighter about himself. Merry sighed and looked upward. "Perhaps we ought make camp here tonight," he said quietly. His dismal eyes turned to Aragorn, speaking of distress and weariness.

Pippin blanched a bit as he looked at his cousin. "Are you sure that's wise?" the Hobbit asked.

Aragorn sighed and looked around once more, as if yearning and glancing alone could return their missing comrades to them, but found no words for the want of his heart. Merry explained quietly when it was clear the ranger would not speak. "When Sam does return, he will be disheartened to find that we have up and left without him."

Pippin sighed and looked blankly ahead, his long face dirtied. "If he does return," he moaned almost wistfully, dark eyes blankly trained forward as if finding some point of great interest in the trees ahead. "Foolish Gamgee. He's got no sense of direction, I'll tell you that!"

Merry smacked his arm loudly, to which the other yelped and brandished an angry scowl. "You never know when to keep that mouth of yours shut, Pip!" he admonished harshly. Then Merry looked to Frodo, the irritation fading from his face. Softly he assured, "Sam knows his way."

As much as Aragorn wished to rest the pain of his soul and his body, he knew that the hours spent in respite would later needle him as a senseless waste. Pushing the tired and grief-stricken group onward ailed his heart, but there was no other choice. To tarry now meant losing precious days of tracking the army. Even if they had already killed Legolas, Boromir was undoubtedly with them. Thus there, as well, would they find the One Ring. He did not want to consider such painful thoughts, but he knew he must. Reclaiming the Ring from evil meant the victory of the Fellowship, and that undeniably was more important than any of them. They could not afford to wait for Sam.

"We must move on," the ranger then announced, chasing the uncertainty from his voice. For a moment the statement hung on the air, and the Hobbits stared at him as though they did not understand. Aragorn supposed they wished not to.

"Strider, you aren't suggesting we go_after_ the Ring," Pippin asked incredulously, aghast with the thought. "We can't possibly hope to defeat that army!"

The ranger grew angry. He knew it was unfounded, but it was difficult to stifle. His own guilt and rage drove him to it. "We can and will if need be, Master Took. The One Ring must not fall into the hands of evil, or we all will have failed and again this world will be covered in blackness."

Pippin's face grew ashen, starkly white in the fading rays of the sun. Merry glanced at him, trepidation and apprehension clear in his gaze, but a certain vehemence was returning to his defeated face, as though the existence of a greater purpose brought absolution to his bleeding heart. "Let's ready the supplies, Pip," he declared, tightening his jaw. Pippin sat a moment more, as if in sad disbelief, before rising and following his cousin to the few packs that remained.

Gimli grunted. "Tracking the army will not be too difficult, I trust, son of Arathorn." His deep voice was torn in grief over the loss of Legolas, but anger was swirling in his gaze. Aragorn did not doubt that, should the occasion arise, the son of Glóin would brandish his massive and deadly axe against the enemy with relish.

The ranger gave a weak grin that did not carry to his eyes. "Easy enough, my dear friend. When we happen upon them, I have no doubt they will quickly know the fire of Dwarven vengeance."

"As well the strength of human valor," Gimli responded, sharing a resolute look with the ranger. The loss they bore they did together. The enemy would know their fury.

When Gimli turned to help the Hobbits with the packs, Aragorn released a slow breath. Then a small hand came to tug at his pants leg. He looked down.

Frodo did not meet his gaze, his wide blue eyes red-rimmed and glazed with tears. His depression was consuming, sucking all light from his pale complexion. The wound upon his temple that had likely rendered him unconscious hours before had now ceased bleeding, though it brought a horrid agony to his young and innocent countenance. His youth seemed snapped, stolen, brutalized. Aragorn's heart ached for him. "I've failed you all," Frodo moaned despondently, fresh tears building.

The ranger knelt before the Hobbit and took the small hands in his own. "Nay, Frodo. You were not the soul that faltered or the friend who betrayed. Have strength now in knowing this."

The small creature shivered. Moisture ran down his sallow cheeks, glistening in the fading sun. "Legolas is dead because of me," he whispered. "And Sam is lost. I have only brought you strife, when this burden should have been mine to carry alone."

Aragorn reached forward and with the pad of his thumb gently wiped away the tears from the Hobbit's quivering face. "This burden is all of Middle Earth's, Frodo, though you are courageous to assume it for yourself. Legolas knew that." He felt his throat constrict in unshed tears. He squeezed the Hobbit's hands. "I promise you," he declared quickly. Frodo finally met his gaze. He forced solidarity into his eyes and grip. "We will get it back."

Frodo seemed heartened by his words. The Hobbit sniffled and then wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand and nodded. Relief washed through the ranger as he saw a bit of Frodo's old courage return to his eyes, and he helped the Hobbit stand.

Merry clapped Frodo on the shoulder brotherly as he approached, but said nothing. Pippin groaned under the weight of his pack, but then righted himself and winced. Gimli tipped his axe over his shoulder. "If you would, Master Ranger," the Dwarf declared, nodding to the woods ahead.

Aragorn turned and gazed upon their path. Leaves were trampled, twigs and branches crunched under pounding feet, the forest floor flattened as though by a stampede. The signs of the army's direction were blaring, an obvious clue even in the waning daylight.

He heaved a silent prayer for them all as he turned and began to walk. Behind him clanking resounded, and then the plodding of tired feet became the only sound in the forest. As they marched, the ranger grew uneasy. Each footstep led them closer to an unimaginable danger. His soul shivered in silent resignation.

The tracks led west.

West towards Isengard.

* * *

><p>A small figure crept through the dark woods like a shadow. Swiftly yet cautiously he slipped between the thick trunks of old trees, stepping on light feet. Only the pale light of the moon showed him his path. The white face in the sky seemed mournful and concerned for the lone traveler carefully navigating the cold forest. It would almost be serene if not for the urgency with which the figure stepped. He was running, forever running, charged now with the greatest of all responsibilities.<p>

Sam nearly choked on his breath as he finally happened upon the small clearing along the bank of the great river Anduin where he believed the Fellowship's last camp to be. He stared with wide eyes in disbelief. Where only a mere few hours before they had rested, there was now nothing but vague imprints of boots in the sand and boats upon the shore. The supplies that he had remembered to be forgotten during the skirmish were gone. All that remained was one boat, idly resting upon the sandy shore. Within it still, covered by a blanket of black, were a few pouches of supplies left untouched.

A great sob threatened him, but he stifled it. Crying would not do him any good. An eternity had passed since he had left Legolas, it seemed, and he had wandered for hours in the maze of trunk and leaf, desperately searching for sings of the Fellowship. The accursed Ring mocked him for his weakness; he had fastened Frodo's necklace around his own self and tucked the trinket deep into the folds of his tunic in hopes of ignoring it. He had never been good with directions, his sense of the outdoors dulled by long years spent within the confines of offices and taverns. He tried to recall how he had found the camp of the Orc army and retrace his steps, but he was no ranger and the actual act proved too difficult. So he had ran against the setting sun, with the blazing ball behind him. At least this small bit of logic had repaid him, and he had finally found the shore.

Discouraged, he sank to the cold ground as burning tears again fled his eyes against his will. They were gone now, dead or lost. He did not know. The oppressive fear of isolation that had picked at his resolve since losing Legolas threatened to overwhelm him. How he wished for Frodo's strong eyes to guide him! He almost found himself wishing he might encounter an Orc patrol, for at least that would be _something_ in this terrifying wilderness. Deep down inside he had known that finding the camp as such was a very likely possibility, but a fierce loyalty to Frodo and a driving hope had kept his worries at bay. Now, though, he could not deny that the Fellowship had truly fallen, and he was utterly alone.

For a long time he sat upon the shore, weeping for both himself and his friends, the despair and pain leaving in a great tempest of tears and gasps. What would become of him? He was no fighter. He did not have Gimli's strength nor Legolas' agility. He knew not the lay of the land nor the language of the stars as Aragorn did. He was neither wise nor noble as Gandalf had been. Even Merry and Pippin, despite their foolery, possessed a quiet loyalty and fierce determination that never wavered even in the face of the greatest peril. He was only Sam, son of Hamfast, a Hobbit too shy at heart to even ask his fancy for a quick dance. Nothing about him was remarkable. What was more, all he could manage now was tears for the foul crisis upon him!

The moonlight covered him in an ethereal embrace. Frodo had once said that he, too, had only been ordinary before the Ring had come to him. He had been just a young Hobbit, enamored with fantasy but content with the Shire. Extraordinary circumstances birthed a stronger soul, and Frodo had risen to the destiny before him no matter the pain it caused.

His sobs quieted. It would truly be weakness to succumb now to the grievances of his heart.

His hand came up to clench the hot Ring through the fabric of his tunic. In the face of disaster, he would not give up. If he was fated to continue in this horrid battle alone, then he would rise to meet it with dignity. He owed this at least to Frodo.

And so he stood and allowed hope to find its way back into his heart. Sniffling now he looked to the lonely moon. It too had no companions, the night strangely starless. Yet without falter it traversed the black of the sky, silently strong.

Perhaps his friends were not dead. The webs of life were vast and intricate; many paths and roads lay in wait for them, many possibilities, the fruits of which unknown. He would meet them again. He would put his faith in that for now.

Sighing, he turned his gaze to the river. It shimmered like dark silk in night, rippling with the cold breeze. In the shadow he could barely make out the eastern shore. The river was moving quickly, rushing towards the ravine not a league to his right where it tumbled in a great cacophony down the falls to the lands below. Sam watched the river apprehensively a moment. Ever since his youth, he had been terrified of water. At the moment it seemed a violent and menacing force, covered in the shadows, threatening him with the soft swish of current against the shore. He hesitated, irrational dread clawing at his resolve. But he felt the horrible weight of the Ring about his neck and composed himself. This would be the first hardship of his journey.

Steeling himself, he pushed the lone, wooden boat into the water. Holding it steady, he licked his lips and waded in after it. The water was freezing, aching in his bones and numbing his skin. Grunting, he hauled himself up and over the edge of the boat with a spray of chilly water.

Sam shivered, glad to be in the solid boat. He picked a large oar and began to row.

The water churned and swirled with unseen power, so dark with night that it appeared to be an endless abyss that was sucking him down. Sam shook with fear and cold, but made himself concentrate on the simple action of rowing to calm his riled nerves. With a quiet slosh, the wooden oar sliced through the water and pushed the boat forward. Again and again. The sounds of the river and his own heavy breathing seemed amplified a thousand fold in the silence.

A strange thing he did not intend then happened. Maybe halfway across the river, the boat suddenly trembled and buckled, and the currents pushing the water towards the falls grew stronger. Shock coursed through his small body as he frantically pushed with the oar to keep the nose of the craft pointed straight towards the eastern shore. But the river was far stronger than he, and he cried out as it turned him to face the edge. The oar splashed uselessly into the water and sank into the black deep.

Though the flight across the last rapids before the descent seemed impossibly infinite, it lasted hardly a few moments. The small Hobbit, terrified beyond all sense, grasped the boat's sides with two shaking, white hands, watching wide-eyed as the edge of the water grew closer and closer. It seemed such a silly thing, that he should have the misfortune to row into a spot of current that too strongly pulled in its own direction. He would never have the strength to fight that. He breathed in short gasps, all thoughts fleeing his mind in a desperate attempt to escape the fate of his body. The boat gave a last few wicked jostles before reaching the end.

Then it tipped over. Cold water washed over him, slapping him with a hard and icy blow, and suddenly he felt weightless. His stomach leapt to his throat, his heart stopped, and he could not breathe. The feeble wooden craft of the boat pushed him forward sadistically. One look sent him into a paroxysm of convulsions and gasps. As if fate had cruelly left him to dangle, he was held there upon the precipice for an endless moment. But that too forsook him, and he lurched forward.

Sam's horrified scream trailed into the darkness, the thunder of the water and his own heart filling his mind. He could not think to close his eyes nor pray, paralyzed as he fell, propelling at unbelievable speeds into the dark below. There was neither air nor reason in this vacuum, only the horrifying sensation of flight. He tumbled downward, vaguely aware of the boat behind him, of the mist from the falls stinging against his skin, of the pain and terror in his soul.

Then he struck.

Intense pain flowered over his body, snapping tension from his limbs, and all sound was suddenly replaced by a dull roar that filled his ears. Some part of him realized that he was under water, but his panic and pain ignored the blaring warning, and he choked. He could not move, the vicious chill invading his body, snatching his strength. His lungs burned and ached. Kicking and struggling vainly, his deprived mind moved solely on instinct. But it was too black to find the surface, and something heavy was pushing him down. Red splotches danced in his vision.

He was drowning!

As life began to fade from him, leaving him at the mercy of the icy grasp of the water, he thought of the Shire. It was such a pretty place, filled with loving neighbors, warm, lazy summer days spent under the cool canopy of ancient trees, good food borne from centuries of tradition. Home. He had spent many a day with Frodo wasting afternoons away in the shade in a companionable silence, puffing upon the good weed of the fields. How he longed for the sweet taste, for the companionship of his friends and family, for the security of his home. Hobbiton seemed a lost dream, and it had since they had formed the Fellowship. Even if he did return, he would never be the same.

Still, he had pledged to Rosie another dance. He had told his father that he would help him with thatching the roof of their small, old shed. He had made a promise. A promise not to lose Frodo. Not to leave Frodo. Not to give up.

With a cry, he shoved upward, and broke the surface. Gasping, water sputtering from blue lips, he drew in heaving breath after breath of sweet and glorious air, filling his lungs without reservation. Complete darkness surrounded him and panic pulsed once more through his frozen body, pushing energy into him. Had he fallen into some sort of cave? The sound of water lapping against wood was so loud. Logic returned to his aching mind. He was trapped under the overturned boat.

Sam shook in fear. He could not swim. The other Hobbits, especially Merry and Pippin, had many times in the past poked fun at his fear of water and his inability to move in it. Although despair jabbed at his resolve, he ignored it. He took at deep breath, the vow he swore to himself giving him strength. He could swim if he set his mind to it. He knew he could!

Pushing down from the top of the boat, he submerged again. The water grabbed him, its icy caress sapping energy once more, but he refused to be defeated. Struggling in the black, keeping one hand on the outside of the boat as a reference, he pushed away and fled from beneath it. Now free, he rose again to the surface.

The pale light of the moon directed him. Maybe half a league away was the other shore, glowing like salvation. He struggled to stay afloat, kicking, swallowing his panic. It seemed so far away, and he was so very tired. There was no one to help him.

"_You must, Sam."_ Legolas' words filled his mind once more. _"Your first duty is to the Ring and to Frodo."_ He swallowed water and choked. His face was streaked with tears. The small creature gritted his chattering teeth. _I must do this!_

And so he struggled forth, kicking, straining, pushing the heavy water aside, gasping and fighting with all the strength he had left. The conviction in his heart gave him resolution. As he swam, words from a conversation he had once overheard floated about his exhausted mind. Gandalf's wise voice heartened him. _"Hobbits really are amazing creatures. You can learn all that there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years they can still surprise you in a pinch!"_ It seemed so long ago! Oh, how they all had changed! Before he had doubted those words could ever apply to him. But they had, and they would still. He would not fail.

Then, after an eternity of struggle against wet peril, his toes struck the mud, and he waded to shore. Once there he collapsed upon the bank, utterly exhausted, his body refusing to support him any longer. There he lay sopping wet, staring blankly at the sky, relishing the feeling of the sturdy ground beneath his back, severely winded. A great maelstrom of emotion swirled about his weary heart. Despite himself, he grinned foolishly and began to weep.

The moon smiled down upon him. Such a constant companion, shedding its soft light quietly when all other lights had gone out.

Then he closed his eyes.

He had reached the eastern shore. He had passed this first test. Although he knew there would be many more to come, for now, this was enough. And he sank into sleep.


	4. What Is to Come

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for all the comments! I love them all. Onward!

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER FOUR: WHAT IS TO COME**

Legolas was hearing a great argument. The stupor of sleep was slow to fade from his agonized mind, and at first he made no sense of it. It seemed vaguely strange to him that he did not particularly care about his ignorance, as though responsibility was being shunned for the sake of the self. The black that surrounded him was too comforting, for here there was neither pain nor fear, and the Orcs could not hurt him. The soundless, shapeless void held his mind captive in a perpetual state of apathy, for he was simply too tired and too hurt to concern himself with matters beyond this embrace of unawareness.

Then the trees sang a soft but frantic lyric to him composed of the cold night air urgently whistling through leaves, and he lingered no longer. Memory then returned, tugging terror and panic with it to chase away the remnants of a soothing unconsciousness, and his eyes snapped open.

He blinked a few times, for the scene before him was tipped sideways and horridly unfocussed. While the world spun, his senses slammed into his mind with their own tale. He was cold and damp and so very thirsty. He felt horrible pain. All his hurts abruptly stabbed into him with a new vengeance that nearly stole consciousness from him once more. He closed his eyes and winced, struggling simply to breathe against the great waves of agony shooting through him. Moments stretched to an eternity before he felt it had dulled enough for him to chance opening his eyes again without becoming sick. After drawing cool breath after breath to soothe him, he decided to confront the world around him.

He was laying face down on the forest floor, blunted twigs and stones poking uncomfortably into the soft flesh of his bare belly, leaves matted into his hair and sticking to his skin. His hands were once again tied behind him, and though the strength evaded him to attempt to pull at the ropes, he knew the knots were impossibly tight. His ankles were of much the same fate. Even if he could somehow free himself, he knew his feet would prove useless as they were numb and aching from the bindings. The air had grown cold with night, and without his tunic the chill invaded his hapless form with ease. Anew he suffered the many bruises and cuts that covered him, results of the beating before. His shoulder burned in fiery agony, and the position of his arms only further aggravated the vicious injury. Every breath sent searing pain lacing down his chest, and he fought to turn over to relieve the stress upon his wounded ribs. Intense hurt was the only reward for his squirming movements, but he managed only to tip himself onto his side. It was enough for him to curl tighter, drawing his knees up to his chest to conserve whatever meager heat his body still radiated.

There was a low grumbling. He then cursed himself viciously, realizing the folly of his action. Two Orcs stood guarding him, one on either side and a bit ahead, their oppressive stench of foul things, sweat, and blood twisting his already upset stomach. Fear pulsed through him in debilitating waves and he squeezed his eyes shut. All he could not to shiver was bite hard into his tongue and stiffen every limb. His heart was booming in anticipation that they would begin their torment of him anew, for surely they had noticed his wakening!

What he dreaded came not, and he risked peeking through lowered eyelids. They had not turned to him, both still watching a scene ahead that was hidden to him. The soldiers were tense, shedding their anxiety in great waves that served to worry the Elf's heart. Clearly they were unnerved, and the trees sang now of contention and conflict. When the vicious words of the distant argument again assailed his ears, he took pains this time to concentrate upon them. Something was amiss in the army camp. Though his hearing was keen, a distracting racket of the army served to hide anything to answer the panicked questions swirling about his racing mind, the mesh of snorts, screams, and grunts masking conversations, and his command of Dark Speech was not sufficient enough to weed through all the words he heard. But as the argument grew closer with approaching footsteps, not only did its content become frighteningly clear, he recognized one voice.

Boromir's tone was filled with cold fury as he stepped closer. "No where to be found," he said, slightly winded. Legolas cringed inwardly at the evil he heard in the other's tone. "It _must_ be here! Did you search everywhere?" he demanded hotly.

The two Orcs guarding him humbly stepped aside, as though in reverence or fear. There was a deep, guttural snarl. "Everywhere. There is no Ring." He knew the inhuman voice from before: the massive Orc that had led him to Boromir after he had been captured. This demon was clearly their leader and the commander of this vile army.

Boromir shouted, clearly frustrated beyond all control, "It must be here, if the Elf does not possess it!" His eyes narrowed dangerously, threateningly as he stepped closer to the Orc. They were nearly of equal stature, though the monster was broad about the chest under blackened armor. "If you lie, I will personally see to your death. I will not tolerate failure!"

The Orc's snub-nosed face was taut in a growl, and his huge, dirty mane of black locks wavered as he howled in fury. Then he ripped about. Faster than Legolas could prevent, even if he was able enough to try, the beast reached down and hauled him up, his massive claws wrapped sadistically about the Elf's pale, white neck.

A yelp fled Legolas' mouth as he was yanked from the ground. His body screamed in agonizing protest as he was slammed into the massive trunk of a tree. The world fell in and out of focus as he choked, the Orc's grip upon his throat like iron, squeezing vulnerable flesh. Sharp nails drew hot blood.

The beast lifted the young prince from his feet, scraping his back and hands against the rough bark. He leaned close to Legolas' pained face, sneering in obvious glee at the grimace. "Where is the Ring, little Elf?" he slurred. Legolas' lungs burned, and he instinctively squirmed weakly. Everything was ablaze as air faded. Blackness encroached upon his vision, devouring the periphery, but not enough to hide the glint of the twisted and wicked knife in the moonlight as it flashed. A breath later it came to rest upon his quivering and dirty cheek.

What could only be described as lust danced merrily and violently in the Orc's beady gaze. "Answer!" he shouted. The sharp edge of the blade traced down his flesh slowly, as if in a sadistic caress, drawing beads of bright blood. So dazed from strangulation, Legolas did not notice the sting. In spite of himself, he shook in great terror. "If you do not, you will only live long enough to see your blood cover this forest of yours!" Even if Legolas had wanted to answer, he could neither get breath in his lungs nor strength in his lips to form the words. He buried the truth where the pain could not reach it and embraced unconsciousness whole-heartedly. The Orc squeezed him tighter, and he faded away.

Then he hit the ground. No air was left in him to cry out in pain, the force jostling his battered body angrily. He lay there in a heap, gasping, each breath shuddering in and out of him. Before he could recover, a boot slammed into his stomach, forcing all the air he had selfishly sought again out of his body. Weakly, he curled into a ball, trying to protect his vulnerable abdomen.

No more blows followed though, and Legolas choked, gasping through clenched teeth. He squeezed his eyes shut against hot tears.

Boromir spoke again. "He will not divulge what he has done with the Ring." The man's words were blunt and frustrated. "Nothing that we can do to him will force him. You cannot break the will of an Elf with simple discomforts."

Silence. Then a cry of absolute anger, and the Orc turned to the hapless Legolas again. A meaty claw wrapped into the Elf's long blond locks and yanked his body upward again. Despair slammed into him as he realized what was about to occur. The young prince saw the peaceful moon above for the briefest second. It was sad but strong, and he drew the will to chase away his shaking rage and sorrow, trading them for tranquility of acceptance. To die here, at least, meant they would never find Sam. Then the murderous Orc filled his blurred vision. "He is of no use to us then," the demon declared gleefully, raising the knife to strike.

Boromir jerked forward and caught the descending fist. Rage clear in his tense frame, the son of Gondor shoved the Orc back. The beast howled again and stumbled, releasing the Elf. Legolas crumpled to the ground. Though pain, terror and surprise shook him, he scrambled to pull himself up and back, drawing his knees once more to his chest protectively.

The giant Orc snarled spitefully at Boromir, gripping his knife so tightly that muscles of his arm bulged like rocks. He stepped closer to the man, his stride tall, proud, and ominous. "You will not interfere, _human_," he sneered quietly. Venom dripped from the rasping words. "The Elf is our catch. We will use him as we please."

Boromir stood unyielding. A cool breeze swept by, screaming through the trees, and it brushed aside the warrior's sandy hair. His eyes shone in the moonlight. A strange storm of emotion warped them, a tempest of sorts that made Legolas fear the suffocation might have truly damaged his mind. A blinding madness and rage screamed a foul danger and a greater strength borne from absolute corruption. Yet there still lived something else, a tiny speck of good that seemed utterly misplaced as it struggled to survive in the sea of turmoil. It glowed like a firefly, a small reminder of the man Boromir had once been, of the companion and fighter Legolas had once respected and trusted. Could it be that the son of Gondor was breaking from the foul seduction of the One Ring? Could he dare have such a hope? His heart nearly quaked with the idea.

"The Elf is not yours to kill," Boromir stated simply. His words held an unspoken threat. "He belongs now to Saruman, as you do. If you betray your master, you have betrayed your making. I will see you dead before you soil his creation."

The Orc screamed and drew his long, hooked weapon, but his army did not answer. Legolas watched astonished. The monster stepped to Boromir. "You presume much!" he shouted.

"You not enough," Boromir responded, "for to slay the Elf now destroys the last connection with the Ring. Finding it is more important than your sport!" The Orc growled and swung his blade down. There was a metallic ring, and Legolas looked back to the son of Gondor. Boromir unsheathed his long, elegant sword. The silver blade shimmered in the light softly, its edges screaming a tale of past blood and future murder. This he leveled at the other. "Stand down," he ordered slowly, vehemently, "or I will kill you."

They stood still then, two combatants of tremendous power and intimidation, preparing to fight for the ownership of the Elf. Legolas stared numbly in confusion, but the slow pain of understanding filled him, and this he could not deny for all the wish of his heart. The Orcs would see him beaten and mutilated, but dead at least, so he might carry his burning secret into the shadow. If Boromir won this battle, though, he knew that luxury would not be afforded him. He would be taken to Isengard and made to kneel before Saruman. He shuddered. He could not allow that to happen!

Yet he was stilled by his own weakness and compassion. His heart boomed in rage that he move now to free himself, when his captors were engrossed in the tense scene before them. But Legolas simply could not. It was a bitter irony if any had ever slapped him.

He did not want to see Boromir die.

The Orc howled and fell into an aggressive fighting stance. "You will pay for your insolence!" he cried as he charged. Massive feet thundered forward in a spray of leaves and dirt. Boromir did not retreat but stood tall, bearing his own blade to strike.

The swords cracked together with a shower of sparks and a screech of metal. They grinded at each other, but neither the Orc nor Boromir lost ground in the test of strength. The beast's face was ferocious and horrible, sneering hatefully. Boromir was achingly cold and hard, his eyes alive with power. Then they split, and the monster gave a roar. The other Orcs watched in stupefaction in the camp, as if they waited for the battle's termination to side with whoever was the victor. Such foul creatures!

Blades sliced through the air as they fought, narrowly missing cutting flesh and severing limbs. Boromir moved with silent grace, the lines of his strong body flawlessly flowing with his weapon, as he feigned and countered the massive swings of his nemesis. The Orc's own attacks lacked elegance but held great strength. They drove huge holes into the soil when they failed to meet their mark and in stead struck the ground. As the fight progressed in a blur of blocks and attacks that would have left normal eyes daft, Legolas found himself marveling at Boromir's speed and strength. The son of Gondor before had been an able swordsman, his reflexes quick and his swing mighty. However, something greater had twisted Boromir's stances, creating a cold killer from once a noble protector. He had hardly broken a sweat or drawn a gasping breath, and the Elf found this disconcerting. The Orc had been a formidable opponent, yet now he was scarcely a threat, and his fierce attacks were sloppy and arrogant. Boromir batted them away with ease. Never before had such skill graced him! Was this a gift of the Ring?

The Orc, for his own part, stumbled. If he as well was unnerved by this, it did not show on his cracked and disfigured face. In rage he screamed to the sky, and lunged at Boromir, the vicious blade raised to strike. The son of Gondor smirked and whirled, deflecting the blow. His sword screamed upward and with a spray of foul, brackish blood, he sliced the Orc's arm clean from its body. The useless limb fell limply to the ground.

With a demonic screech, the Orc rounded on him, showing neither pain nor fear. But it was for naught, for Boromir tightened the grip upon the hilt of his blade and swung high. Legolas winced. The sharp edge met little resistance as it cut through the thick neck, and the severed head tumbled to the forest floor. The decapitated body crumpled downward a moment after.

Everything stayed still a moment. The forest was still and eerie. Then Boromir, breathing quietly and clearly not perturbed, leaned down and wiped the black blood from his sword upon the headless corpse. He then glanced threateningly about him. The rest of the army watched, astounded and frightened. "Hear this!" he hollered to the troops, glaring at the monsters. Quite a few shrank back in fear. "I now command this army! Cross me not, for I smite you as easily as I did your leader!" The Orcs shrieked a moment, and then grunted and shouted their submission. Legolas watched the spectacle with apprehensive eyes.

The son of Gondor leveled his blade at one the Orcs stationed near the Elf. "Make preparations for departure. We continue west." The beast narrowed his gaze and then grunted in affirmation. He hurried off, shouting in Dark Speech to companions. Their retreating forms faded into the shadows.

Boromir returned his sword to his sheath. There he stood, proudly gazing upon the Orcs as they quickly readied themselves. "Do not thank me, Elf," he said after a moment. "What awaits you now will be far worse than the abuse of Orcs."

Legolas glared, finally struggling to his knees, whatever sense of companionship he had previously felt for the man fading in the rush of his angry heart. "You are a fool, Boromir," he said quietly, his tone seething, "to think that I will falter. Saruman does not frighten me any more than you do."

Rage flashed across the man's face, and he ripped around. The cold leather of his gloved hand slapped across Legolas' cheek, sending the young prince roughly to the ground. Pain flowered from his injured shoulder and bruised ribs, and all he could do to stifle a scream was bite hard upon his tongue.

A weight fell upon his chest. When the hurt faded enough to concentrate once more, he found Boromir's boot planted upon him, crushing him into the ground. "Why do you struggle, Legolas? The Fellowship has broken! There is no sense in prolonging your defeat!"

The Elf gasped. Only his anger gave him vigor. "As long as you do not hold the Ring, then the Fellowship is strong. I made a vow upon my honor to protect Frodo and the Ring! I will not betray the others as you have!" Boromir growled and shifted his weight from his other leg, placing it upon Legolas' body. The young prince cried out as his hands were crushed, his chest burning in agony. He thought he felt his ribs bend. Still, he did not look away. He would not! "Free yourself, Boromir! The evil that has seduced you will not avail you!" He could say no more, though, before the air rushed uselessly from his form.

Boromir's face was apathetic as he watched Legolas struggle feebly. After a few long minutes, he let up, and the Elf sucked in heaving breaths, coughing, fighting to turn to his side and protect his body. "You have stolen something very dear to me, Legolas."

The Elf groaned, "It was never yours."

Boromir laughed. "Such an assumption! The line of Kings holds claim to that Ring. I only ask that it be returned to those that deserve it!" An insane note crawled into his tone. "This is what you have denied me!"

Legolas narrowed his eyes. "You flatter yourself, Boromir. You ask for a title you do not deserve, for it belongs only to Aragorn!" he shouted.

The cruel hand cuffed him again. Boromir declared furiously, "Aragorn be damned! He is a weakling! Your friendship with him blinds you, Legolas!"

"As your greed does you."

The son of Gondor snapped in fiery ire and raised his hand to strike the Elf once more. This time, though, he hesitated, his face screwed tight with conflicting emotions. Legolas swallowed blood in his mouth as he regarded the other, confusion dissipating for the faintest of hope. Could the evil veil be lifting? "Let it go…" he implored softly, holding Boromir's gaze despite the blackness threatening upon his own, praying to find familiarity in its fathomless depths. "Let it go and return to yourself, son of Gondor!"

Then blackness snapped back, and he was once again shoved to the ground, white filling his vision with the pain of the slap. He lay there then, fighting against the aches of his body, struggling to ward away the inviting blackness.

"Such a loyal Elf," Boromir sneered, looming over his captive. His voice held such loathing, such bitterness. "Tell me, Prince of Mirkwood, how can you yet feel such a thing for me?"

Legolas' heart clenched inside. Had he somehow seen that as well? "I feel nothing but contempt for you, Boromir. You have betrayed us all!" he declared, forcing bravado into his voice.

The man chuckled. "Lying does not become you, Legolas. You faltered before. During that skirmish, all eyes were turned. No greater opportunity for escape could have presented itself. Yet you chose to remain." Cold fear clenched the Elf, and he averted his eyes. How could he be so bare, so obvious? Boromir looked down upon the fearful Elf. Though his prisoner's body was taut with anger, the uncomfortable fear bloomed in his blue eyes. The sight fed Boromir's malevolence even further. "You are weak, Legolas, to think the bond we had in the past would be strong enough to quench my desires." He smiled smugly. "It only betrays your fear." Legolas did not answer, panicked that his captor had detected his wavering resolve. "I pity you, son of Thranduil, for you are but a child."

Sudden indignant anger boiled in Legolas' blood at the hurtful insult. "I am no more a child," he hissed spitefully, "than you are a king!" He knew what would come for such a retort, but he did not regret the words.

The counter was swift and rancorous. With a howl of absolute fury, Boromir kicked the Elf directly into his already bruised ribs. Legolas felt the bones break with an icy pain that shot through his body, and he screamed. Boromir spat upon him, though he lay in a winded daze of intense agony. "Saruman shall make short work of you, Legolas Greenleaf. Your clever words then will not protect you!"

Legolas could hardly hear over the shrill ringing that had invaded his mind, but the words still sliced into his heart. Boromir stood. "We move! The Elf shall not be carried! He walks every step! Beat him if he should slow!" The Orcs shouted in gleeful anticipation. "Gag him as well, for cowards do not deserve to speak," the man hissed, glaring upon the helpless Elf at his feet as though Legolas' sharp comments had marred him. "To Isengard!"

A great, euphoric roar went through the army. Legolas felt the first of his hopes wither.

* * *

><p>Time passed slowly for the lone captive of Saruman's army. Minutes stretched to hours and then hours changed into long days, and each step became more of a struggle than the last. The terrain was rough and unfamiliar. Keeping the unnatural pace of the troops took all his strength, and his body was wrought with exhaustion. Had he not been hindered by both his bound arms and his injuries, the strange ground would have made little difference. As it was, though, his steps wavered with uncertainty often, and this was only met with a vicious strike to his head or his back. The Orcs were not kind to his situation, and they reveled in watching a hobbled Elf stumble.<p>

When they blissfully let him be, he could let his mind wander from the pain of his body and his heart. Though his strife was always near him, he could ignore him with thoughts of better times. He tried not to dwell much upon his friends, for with their memory came worry. He prayed they were well. Aragorn, he knew, would protect them. Still, he found little consolation among the incessant concerns within him. Often times he imagined Mirkwood, and it brought him solace. The grand tree in the middle of one alcove stood strong in his mind's eye, at times the imagining so vivid he thought he could smell its soft, leafy scent, feel its old bark beneath his fingertips and the embrace of its leaves as he rested aloft in its branches. He had loved that tree since his childhood. Its spirit had been a constant companion, a friend that never wavered. Many times he had returned to the grove to visit it and sing with it, it as ageless as he. Never would he part with its soul. It was one of the many things that tied him so tightly to Middle Earth.

Oh, how he longed to sing! To lift his voice to sky and let his spirit escape the black mud sucking him down! But he dared not, for the song of the Elves was a torturous sound for the Orcs, and they would surely punish him for it. Instead he thought the lyrics, imagined the clear melodies, and wished for salvation. At least this was enough to distract him from the growing shadow upon his heart. With each step, he was dragged closer to Isengard. With each breath, he was inevitably counting away his freedom.

The days shed meaning as he lost track of them, and his yearnings for his home grew painful. He had not parted with his father on the best of terms. Of late, Thranduil's Elvish narcissism had grown unbearable. His father was a good king and a fair ruler, but he was too aged and too easily swayed by drink. Times were changing upon Middle Earth, and no longer could the Elves of Mirkwood hide behind ancient prejudices and arrogance. Contemporary mindsets were regarded as sinful as heresy in the House of Thranduil, which did not bode well with its youngest son. Legolas had inherited his mother's patience, as well as her wisdom regarding the "lesser races". Where his older brothers embraced their father's perspectives, he wanted to understand Dwarves and Men. In his eyes, all creatures of Middle Earth from Elf to ant were equal and splendid in their diversity. His mother, at least, had been supportive of this until her death at the hands of Orc raiders centuries prior. The first divisions between Legolas and his brothers and father had been laid, and it only festered with unspoken aggravations and unresolved tensions for hundreds of years as the youngest son of Thranduil came into adulthood. But it was his steadfast friendship with Aragorn had served to finally drive the last brick into the wall between father and son. Arwen had sympathized with him. She too had come to value the companionship of men in a way that was considered "unbecoming" and "impudent" by Elvish kind. The estrangement between himself and his family had blossomed into a stronger connection with her. Now he longed for her simple words of advice and clear laughter. Her sisterly affection had often eased his troubled soul.

He ached with worry for Aragorn. How Arwen would suffer if her love was lost! After the fateful council meeting, he had only been able to share but a few words with the eldest daughter of Elrond. She was steadfast in her support of Aragorn's decision to aid the Fellowship, yet he could see the distress in her eyes. Legolas had volunteered to help destroy the Ring out of duty to Middle Earth, to his race, to his family, and to himself. Yet then his decision adopted another, special purpose, and he promised her that he would let no harm come to Aragorn. The relief in her clear, blue eyes had been gratitude enough. He cursed himself angrily now. Little good he would do his dear friend as such. Would this too become another vow he would break? Another weakness?

When a cold rain came, his spirits tumbled. His bones ached, and his hurts, although they were healing, cried anew. For days, it rained, drenching the land in an icy sundering. He trudged with his head bowed, defeated. He missed his father and feared the angry words they had shared before he had left Mirkwood for Rivendell bearing the fated message would be the last. His love for Arwen ached in his depressed heart, and he loathed the pain his failure would cause her. He feared that Aragorn would fall, shattering a promise made long ago in play that they would never abandon the other in peril. Horrible images of the Fellowship's demise stampeded through his distraught mind, of Gimli murdered, of Merry and Pippin slaughtered in a pool of blood and Frodo taken by the evil of the Ring… and poor Sam! Such a coward had he been to leave the small, terrified creature alone to carry the horrible burden of the Ring! Until then, he had not doubted that Sam would find his way back to the others and restore the Ring to Frodo. But what if he had not? It had been folly to think that a creature as small as a Hobbit could navigate unfamiliar terrain and track the Fellowship while avoiding legions of bloodthirsty Orcs! Certainly he had sent Sam to his death!

He tried to convince himself that these were only nightmares borne from pain, exhaustion, and delirium, but logic seemed a feeble force compared to their potency.

The Orcs came for their entertainment when the army did halt for a brief repose, denying Legolas the rest he so sorely needed. Their beatings left him gasping and bruised, though he refused to satisfy their cruel hunger with screams. A few days after leaving Amon Hen, they grew frustrated with their prisoner's resilience. A shaman of sorts concocted a vile potion of weeds and herbs, and by holding the Elf's nose shut and pulling open his jaw, they forced him to drink it. What ensued then was a horrible torture to his mind and his body. His vision blurred and filled with apparitions and hallucinations that tormented and frightened him. The meager meals of bread and water they had given him he vomited, sick with nausea and fever. So strong was the toxin that even when his stomach was empty he still shook in great, dry heaves that strained his broken ribs and pained lungs. This went on for days, the Orcs taking great joy in seeing an Elf of high stature so utterly ill. He shook in chills and burned in fever, yet they would not let him rest, content to pollute his body with their heinous torments and poison his mind with demonic dreams.

Yet this they ceased at Boromir's will, for the man had grown concerned at the Elf's pallor and lifeless eyes. The man had ignored his captive for the most part during the journey, paying little attention when the trussed and gagged young prince was brutalized. His interest now seemed purely selfish. Had Legolas been of his senses, he would have fumed at the humiliation. As it was he only gratefully took the few hours of sleep afforded him and the water offered to his dehydrated body. He wondered if he would ever now escape the nausea constantly constricting his throat.

They were moving again not long after, departing the dense woods and entering the plains. Legolas recognized the path now and grew crestfallen. He banished his agitation, though, for he knew he would need all his strength to face what lay ahead. Each step was agony. One foot in front of the other. He was so tired, but he could not let his guard down now. Thoughts of escape desperately filtered through his mind, but he dismissed them before they could rouse his hopes. It would only be futile; so weak from the sickness and his wounds old and new, he would not get far if he could somehow free himself. Attempting it would be folly. His resolution faltered. As much as he now hated it, he had to accept this fate. He had no choice.

Still, when he spotted the black tower of Isengard climbing into the endless gray skies, it took all his will not to turn and run. A great stench filled his nostrils, and the nausea rose again to dizzying levels. Trees burning. His heart felt scraped raw in pain for their loss and anger. The sight before him caused his soul to quake in fury and horror. The once massive forests of Isengard were gone, wasted, reduced to a blackened land of hard stone and reeking smoke. He wanted to scream. Only a scarce few times prior had he ever visited the land of the Istari, where the wisest of wizards gathered. It had been a place of beauty and silent strength, ancient trees lining gardens and paths like quiet guardians. That was all now gone, ruined by Saruman's treachery and raped by Sauron's evil.

The army was descending down the hills into the decimated valley like a horde of ants. Legolas stood at its crest a moment, aghast at the extent of the destruction, before the Orc guarding him smacked him hard across the back of his head and shoved him forward. Still, time enough had passed for the Elf to note the solitary figure dressed in the purest of whites atop the great needle of a tower. Massive waves of abominable power radiated from the pinnacle.

Legolas shuddered as he felt the gaze of the ever-watchful Eye burn into his heart.

Saruman had found him.

* * *

><p>Night had descended upon Lórien. The shadows had come with their quiet serenity, laying a blanket upon the forest. Above the stars twinkled innocently, as though they were somehow oblivious to troubles elsewhere. The denizens of Lórien as well slumbered, ignorant of danger and of threat. This night to them was like none other, and they slept in perpetual bliss, among the trees and flowers and sweet winds of their home where evil could not penetrate. The cry of distant agony fell on deaf ears. All save one.<p>

Galadriel, the Lady of the Golden Wood, could not find peace. Sleep would not come to her this night, for the warning in her heart chased away serenity. Throughout much of the day she had sensed this unsettling tiding, but it had remained intangible and incomprehensible, irking her yet availing her with no answers. Now, as Lórien slept, she pondered. Many times before she had felt foul premonitions, for the Eye of Sauron had seen much throughout Middle Earth, and joined with it by the curse of her own ring, she had witnessed its evil. In the days since passing her trial in the witness of Frodo Baggins the menace of the Eye had released her into harmony. Yet now the veiled threat returned. It was a great, unsettling feeling of dread, unpronounced yet strikingly powerful. During the day it had grown from an incessant needling to a prominent whisper. Now she could no longer cast it aside. She must understand.

Thus on quick feet, while her kingdom peaceably slumbered, she descended the grassy steps to the small alcove. Lórien was still under the canopy of night, the trees silent in their song. Water trickled quietly, and she quickly made her way to the stream. Swiftly, she drew clear water into the silver pitcher. Then she turned and hastily poured the liquid into the silver bowl upon the stone pedestal. As the water tumbled down to fill it, the whispers in her mind grew to a harsh scream, and she dropped the vessel.

The mirror drew her attention, and she looked.

A great fire spread from the base of the bowl and scorched her eyes. As it faded she saw many things. The Fellowship, shattered, lost. Isildur's heir prone in a puddle of his blood. The small creatures screaming. The great keening of a hawk as it soared down over a massive black field of Mordor, and upon this plain the stain of the blood of a thousand Elves. Men, slaughtering her fair kin with wicked weapons, bearing the ancient flags of Minas Tirith. Rivendell overrun with invaders, its denizens fleeing as what remained of its soldiers rallied in a last defense. Mirkwood ablaze, the kingdom of the Silvan Elves scorched, the bodies of those unable to escape burning amongst the trees. Lórien gone, her own captives of the men that ravaged their woods. Then she saw the white city, the great pale tower of Minas Tirith jutting against the fiery skies with vengeful power. It stood stark against the black of the acrid smoke. Orcs racing like insects from Mordor and from Isengard, stampeding to the battlements of men with screams of evil bloodlust. A great horrible shadow spreading from the east.

_What is to come. _

Sorrow brought tears to her eyes, and she felt the pain of one imprisoned. It was so real, so acute, that her heart ached in misery. Hands bound. Blood. Fear. Anger. There, like a bright light among a sea of wretched shadow, an Elf. She saw his face, saw his eyes, saw through his eyes. A menace approaching, a twisted wisdom dressed in the purest of white.

Guilt brought pain to her heart, and she knew the shame of one corrupted. This was hidden, the last emotions of a noble heart crushed by a vile invasion of evil. The betrayal of the Fellowship. An endless struggle, in which the valorous man was waning. She feared he would submit finally to the will of Sauron. That would seal their fate.

Fear brought shivers to her soul, and she saw the terror of one alone. Walking onward, bearing a burden not meant to be his, fighting a terrible battle without comfort of companionship. The ache of loss. He did not know where to go, or how to get there. Teetering on the edge of exhaustion.

Anger brought tension to her limbs, and she understood the dissonance of one lost. In the woods, tracking. Racing to make sense of the chaos that had become of his control. The others looking to him for strength. Finding none. An exiled king shamed by his brother. She felt his pain, knew his guilt, comprehended his heart. The Ring. The Ring was gone.

_What is. _

They had been strong, bound together by common fate. The Elf, the Dwarf, and the two men, standing shoulder to shoulder as they protected their wards. The great Istar, free from the shadow that now claimed him. The four little ones, their hearts greater than all, for they willingly had accepted a duty that was more deserved of greater creatures. Hardships they had faced together, and grown stronger in trust. Two thousand years prior. The strength of men faltered upon the black rocks of Mount Doom. This then would be their legacy. The future of all Middle Earth, resting upon the shoulders of nine walkers set out from Rivendell. Their courage had become the courage of all.

_What was and what had been. _

The images raced through her mind. The great horrible shadow took form from black and evil. Sauron. The Eye filled her, burned her, buried her.

And she could look no more.

Galadriel ripped her eyes away with a gasp. The world slammed back down upon her, and for a moment she stood there in denial, shaking. The sense of her body returned to her, the weight of white gown upon her slender form, the feel of the breeze tickling her hair, the sweet aroma of Lórien, the grass beneath her toes. The stars winked from above, but no longer would they watch in ignorance. She stood, trembling, breathing heavily in fear. Finally she gained the courage to turn back to mirror.

The water was now as it once had been, clear and cool, serene. She watched numbly as it reflected only the limbs stretching above and the light of the celestial bodies. Galadriel closed her eyes, but that could not stop the terrifying scenes from replaying sadistically. This nightmare now would forever torment her! She must not allow it to come to pass!

Now she ran, her long hair and gown whipping behind her. Her mind was racing to make sense of what she had witnessed, her feet directing her of their own instinct. Quickly she returned to her room.

She was not surprised to see Celeborn had already risen, obviously perceiving her distress. "What has happened?" he asked quietly, his ancient eyes clear and concerned.

"Quickly," Galadriel said, her voice soft but urgent, "summon Haldir and our fastest riders!"

Celeborn regarded her only momentarily before stepping quickly from the room to carry out her requests. His trust of her intuition was absolute. Mindlessly she waited. What did this mean? The one from Gondor had betrayed his allies obviously, but that alone could not account for such suffering! The One Ring had been hidden from her gaze. She could not discern whether it was in the hands of evil. The possibility in and of itself was disconcerting. Oh, what foul twist of events had led the Fellowship to this sad state!

She knew not the time it took for her kinsmen to arrive. Her feet had carried her to an antechamber. Celeborn returned to her side, his knowing face firm. Through their bond only did she know his confusion and he her fear.

Haldir knelt before them both. "My Lady and Lord," he said, a bit winded, more than likely from excitement than his sudden wakening. Beside him were two other archers of Lórien, slender young elves named Orophin and Rúmil, the latter brother to Haldir. Both knelt as well, silent and perhaps a bit unnerved.

Galadriel lowered her eyes. "Black times are to come to us," she declared quietly and carefully, "if in these tasks I am to give to you each you are not successful." The young Elves before her did not waver with the foreboding of which she spoke. They were the best of Lórien, the strongest fighters, the keenest archers, the bravest and most loyal. She was confident that if failure fell to them, it would not be of their making. "Orophin, you must ride hard to Rivendell. Inform Lord Elrond that the deceit of men is nigh."

Orophin's eyes narrowed as though in confusion. "Men? Men of Rohan? Of Gondor?" he asked incredulously.

Galadriel looked at him sharply. "I know not. I fear both. Bear this message: he must send warriors, as many as he can spare, to guard his borders. Speak of this to no one but him."

The young blond Elf nodded and bowed. "So you will it, my Lady, it shall be."

She turned to Rúmil. "You travel to the Kingdom of Mirkwood. To King Thranduil speak the same warning. However, where Rivendell's army dwindles, Mirkwood's still supports many. Tell him the battle which will decide the course of Middle Earth shall be fought in the land of Men, and his forces shall be needed." Galadriel hesitated, and the horrors of what they witnessed distressed her anew. "He may already be well aware of this, but I cannot in good conscience keep such a tiding from him if not. His youngest has been taken by the enemy."

Rúmil glanced at his brother. The offspring of the House of Thranduil not often graced the woods of Lórien, but only recently had they become acquainted with Legolas when the Fellowship of the Ring had rested in their home in the wake of losing Gandalf the Grey. To think that an Elf of such breeding had fallen into the hands of evil for the sake of Men and Dwarves obviously disgusted them, but they wisely chose not to speak. The younger Elf turned back to his Lady. "I understand. I will not fail."

Galadriel nodded solemnly. "Then go. I place my trust upon you."

They quickly departed. The sounds of quick paces and shouted orders grew distant. Galadriel closed her eyes again to ward away the nightmare, struggling to compose herself. "Haldir, to you I give the most important task, for oft you have shown yourself most worthy of such a duty."

The archer bowed his head respectfully, but his brown eyes were bright with pride and valor. "Then I will not rest until I see it done. Tell me, My Lady, how might I serve the will of the Golden Wood?"

"You are to seek out the Fellowship. The son of Denethor has been turned to shadow by the One Ring, and because of it the greed of men once again holds the fate of Middle Earth in the balance. Once you find Aragorn, son of Arathorn, who we call Hope, you must ensure that he travels to Minas Tirith and secures the allegiance of the kingdoms of men before evil can lay its vile grasp. Do you understand?"

Haldir lifted his head and met her gaze. "Yes," he spoke simply.

"You cannot fail. You know neither fear nor exhaustion. You must do this, and upon convincing him as such, you must aid him in any way you can. I expect no less of you, Haldir of the Golden Wood."

The Elf nodded curtly. "I take my leave then, My Lady," he declared.

Galadriel closed her eyes again then, listening as the young warrior departed. A great battle was coming. A great time of fear. Though she tried, she could not run from the warning now. It would beat in her heart until the threat was defeated.

Celeborn had sensed her turmoil. He said quietly, "We will do all we can."

She hoped it would be enough.


	5. Bound to Darkness

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER FIVE: BOUND TO DARKNESS**

He was trapped, lost, drowning in a great black sea of suffering. Shadow had fallen over him, sucking him down into an endless abyss of torture and turmoil. He wondered how low he might sink. Guilt swarmed within him, stamping out his will and filling what remained of his heart with dread. Where his soul still lived, where he had been able to maintain a bit of himself in smothering sin, he burned in silent anguish. How could he have been reduced to this? Made to kneel before black lords in guilty submission? Such a vile weakness! It was as though he was trapped inside a cell, and only the echoes answered his cries for help. A treacherous punishment if any, for the bars that bound him inside were sadly of his own making.

Whatever reasons that had once driven him had faded, leaving nothing but an undeniable murk of anger and shame. He could not rationalize what had happened. In fact, he could do nothing, for the power of his own lust still claimed his body though his heart cried for relief. But for the pride of his family and his race, he doubted he at all was worthy of being alive. Men faltered. Men were weak. His blood had betrayed him. He screamed against the dark swallowing him whole, but his desires ignored his valor, and he could not break from the spell that had defeated him.

So now he walked, trudging amongst the Orcs he now called brethren, leading the army of Uruk-hai back to its master. The land around them was desolated, scorched by fire and hatred. It was as though all life had fled from the violated area, leaving nothing but a foul breeding ground for evil. Everywhere, painted upon dark rocks and branded into wood and soil, was the white hand that adorned the armor of the Uruk-hai, the mark of Saruman's power. The air stank of blood and sweat and smoke. Part of him reveled in the smell, for he knew below them in a great cavern flames melted metal into sword and scorched frailty into power. This place had been borne from the same desires that strengthened him. But for the tears of his conscience, he would wholly embrace it.

Ahead the great army of Uruk-hai parted, clearing his line of sight, and the tall, black tower of Isengard reached to the sky. His eyes traveled it, impressed by both its screaming force and formidable height. The stronghold of evil was indeed intimidating. He had had no idea that Saruman's forces had grown so numerous and his reach so advanced. Undoubtedly, the Istar would find the lost Ring.

From the dark portal descended a tall man in white. He stepped on light feet, his skin as pallid as his robes, as he walked down the stairs that led to the tower. When he neared, his features became apparent. Ancient eyes seemed to see all at once from beneath arched brows. The face was narrow and long, spotted with age, the nose hooked. A great gray beard of fine hair cascaded down upon his dress, and locks of equal color and texture drooped upon thin shoulders. He carried a massive, long staff that clanked against the stone when he stepped. He appeared a weakling, his form that of a being once potent but now wrought and gnarled with age. Yet horrendous power undulated from him in an aura that was both striking and fearful.

Saruman approached with the might of gods in his step. When he was but a mere foot away, Boromir dropped to one knee. "My Lord," he whispered, shaken by the shear energy. It at once energized and disgusted him. The man took the brittle hand offered to him and laid a soft kiss upon it.

The old wizard grinned seriously. "Son of Denethor," he said simply, eyeing Boromir nonchalantly as he rose again. Boromir was terrified of him, though he tried to remain stoic. Beneath his sick corruption, his soul quaked for the fate of his wretched body. "I am not pleased that the Ring has fallen into obscurity."

His heart thundered. "We did all we could, my Lord, but the Elf hid his treachery well. We could not force its location from him." The excuse felt lame, but he could not retract words once spoken. His resolve wavered as he saw anger flash through the black eyes of the wizard.

"I trust your… friendship with him did not cloud your judgment."

He swallowed awkwardly. "Nay, my Lord. I would see the Elf dead if it would return the Ring to you." The words burned within him.

"Bring him forth, then."

A shout went back through the Orcs as they scrambled to do as their master ordered, sending the command to the rear where their prisoner was held. Boromir averted his eyes. A great throbbing from within him cracked his tenacity. He would ignore it! For the sake of Gondor, he must have the Ring!

What sad logic!

He turned to Saruman. Since touching the Ring, since feeling its awesome power, he had been hungering for it. "What would you have me do, oh Lord, if the Elf yet refuses to speak?" he asked eagerly, wishing childishly that Saruman might present a panacea for his predicament.

Saruman's gaze was blank, unfocussed, as though in contemplation. Then he spoke, his deep voice rumbling with unspeakable menace. "I will see that he does, son of Denethor. The Eye is restless. It hunts for a new bearer of the Ring, for the halfling that once possessed it is no longer of importance. If the Elf holds no clue in our quest, I will have him suffer then slain. He is but a small matter. The Ring will return to its Master, of that rest assured."

The words were but a small comfort. Behind them came a great scuff of feet. The lines of Uruk-hai parted, the beasts stamping their feet in merry cheer, as two of their comrades dragged their catch forward by the hair.

Boromir averted his eyes. In the passing days since the Ring had left his touch, he found it increasingly difficult to look upon Legolas. It was disconcerting and unsettling to see the wounds he had himself inflicted upon the Elf. He tried to deny the guilt that was beginning to plague him, but with each moment it grew more insistent. The blood lust for the Ring had kept it at bay, but that was fading.

Legolas was made to kneel before Saruman, his legs kicked from beneath him. One of the Uruk-hai slapped him when he vainly struggled. The claw tangled in his hair snapped his head up, forcing his gaze to Saruman. A vicious memory came to Boromir's mind of a similar occurrence, of his friend held to the ground in front of him, of his taunts and vicious words, of Legolas' spite clear in blue eyes. But that fled him by will of his goals, and he blinked away the disheartening sight.

Saruman smiled. It was but a small gesture, but its implications sent shivers racing up and down the spine of the man from Gondor. The wizard's elegant hand, each finger tipped by clear, white nails, came to grip the chin of the Elf before him. A long finger slipped the gag from the captive's mouth. "Legolas, youngest son of Thranduil," he declared, "and Prince of Mirkwood. A great misfortune has befallen you, young Elf." The wizard seemed to draw power from the terror slowly manifesting in the Elf's wide eyes. "I offer this one chance to you as a gift. Speak the truth now, and I shall spare you. Lie, and I shall turn your body and mind asunder."

In Legolas' glare gleamed defiance. Boromir idly wondered how he could still have strength. "I fear not for myself, Saruman. Nor do I mourn my fate, for it is my burden to bear, and I will bravely face it. An Elf is not easily broken," he hissed coldly.

Saruman's eyes narrowed. "Choose your words carefully, little one, for you will regret tempting me."

Legolas retorted, "I will regret nothing, and I would gladly embrace death if it will keep the Ring safe!"

His words were met with a solemn smile. "You are indeed a foolish child if you think I would so easily allow you to die." The Elf's eyes were hard and furious, yet Boromir saw the terror creeping about his gaze. "Now spend a moment here, my dear Elf, in contemplation. Do not hastily condemn yourself. The Fellowship is dead. What use is there in forfeiting your life for a cause already passed?"

Legolas obviously tried to remain fervent in his opposition, but the color drained further from his pale cheeks. A great many things shone in the Elf's bright eyes: fear, sorrow, loss, confusion. Boromir was both delighted and devastated at the sight. In that instant, the proud and noble Elf did appear nothing more than a frightened child. "You lie, Saruman," he snapped.

"An arrogant assumption," the wizard declared, clearly pleased that he had so easily dented his prisoner's resolve.

"No," Legolas said, his stoic composure immediately returning, "a logical conclusion, for you have many reasons to deceive me, and I have no cause to believe you."

The wizard gave an amused chuckle. "You are indeed clever, son of Thranduil, and a credit to your kind. However, that will not avail you, for I know your fear. I know death terrifies you. I can see it in your eyes." Again the Elf grew pale. Boromir almost thought he heard the prince draw a shaking, short breath. "I ask you now: where is the One Ring?"

The question hung on the still air. Upon it was a clear threat. It rang of torture, of agony and anguish, of the fading of beauty and the twisting of a soul. The throbbing within Boromir rose to a nearly unbearable point, and he felt himself quiver inside. The lust and the greed were suddenly small grievances, and he ached for his friend, for his comrade with whom he had bravely faced the perils of Moria, for his brother with whom he had mourned the loss of Gandalf. The toil and hardship of the Fellowship had once bound them together! How could he have traded that for a loyalty to power and the darkness with which it came? Sweat beaded upon his temples. He had to do something! "Answer truthfully, Legolas." The words left his mouth of their own volition, and he was surprised to find his tone alien and weak. The Elf looked to him, dismay and anger drawing his face tight. A connection was made then, unexpected but potent nonetheless. Bright blue eyes locked upon deep brown.

And the hold on his dying soul shattered. The black lifted, the shadow snapped back, and the vile curse retreated. The bars that held him in that awful cell disappeared. His heart shuddered in release and then bled in disgrace.

Tears filled his eyes. "_Please. _ Do not sacrifice yourself for their sake!" He fell to his knees before the Elf and grabbed his bare shoulders firmly, desperate to prevent these horrible tidings. Legolas refused to look upon him, perhaps from disgust, perhaps from fear. Boromir bit his lower lip, and felt whatever strength that had driven him in his quest for the Ring snatched away by his consuming shame. "My friend," he whispered softly, "do not do this!"

They were silent a moment. Then Legolas met his eyes. There was no hint of forgiveness, no sign of the loyalty Boromir had days before insulted, no trace of the Elf's carefree spirit that had so often broke into song or laughter. "You are no friend of mine."

It was sealed in horrible finality. The past was closed, and mistakes could not be so simply remedied. Boromir felt his body quiver, though his mind seemed disconnected, and he slowly released the Elf. Shocked, the man stood once more. Tears burned in his eyes as his vile deeds rotted his heart.

Saruman seemed thoroughly intrigued. "It seems, son of Denethor, that the Elf wishes to die alone. A pitiful, noble creature. What say you, Legolas Greenleaf of Mirkwood? Is this the fate you wish?"

Then came a horrible silence. Legolas looked down, ending the moment and leaving Boromir wretchedly hurting. The Elf sighed gently, like the breeze caressing the leaves of the wood, quiet Elvish words whispered on the breath. Though Boromir could not understand them, he knew what they meant. A prayer for the will to endure. "I will not be party to your evil, Saruman," Legolas finnally said quietly, coldly. Then his glare returned to the wizard, hardened by his rage. "Find it yourself!"

The wizard's face remained impassive, even though at his side Boromir shook with anguish. "So be it," Saruman lowly announced. He looked to the Orcs at the Elf's side. "Take this wretch down into the depths of Orthanc, where the sun and fresh air cannot penetrate, where he will be neither healed nor heartened. Spill his blood, my Uruk-hai, for his beauty disgusts me. His valor will not long last him."

Smiling, the monsters rallied in elation at their master's orders. The one behind Legolas hauled him to his feet roughly. They prodded the forlorn Elf with their weapons, drawing fresh blood, as they forced him to march.

Legolas did not struggle, his eyes closed and his head bowed. The wind swept by over the barren, gray plain and picked up his hair in a soft caress, blowing it across his face. The faintest glimmer of wetness upon the Elf's cheek glistened in the sun as the prisoner was led to the dungeon. Boromir shuddered as they passed and lowered his own gaze. He felt what Legolas could not speak. His heart screamed that he do something, anything, to aid Legolas now, before the chance forever disappeared. But he could not. For all his strength and pride, he could not!

There was no excuse now, and there never would be. This was the final betrayal. To finally regain himself and then let his friend walk alone to what certainly would be his death. Such a heinous injustice! He dug his fingers into his palm until he drew blood. The loathing and shame choked him. He was simply terrified of what he had done and of what would be done to him if he should move unwisely. What was worse, though, was the indescribable fear clenching his heart and breath.

He was horrified of himself.

Legolas' pale blond hair and soft glow disappeared, swallowed by the black of Orthanc, the tower devouring it. Boromir stared, defeated, too distraught to think or breathe. What else could he do?

Saruman did not glance upon him as he stepped to the entrance, followed by a retinue of Uruk-hai. "Your weakness becomes you, son of Denethor," he said simply, "for it was the fickleness of men that allowed the threat of Sauron to persist. You will also permit it to triumph."

Boromir stared at the stone beneath his muddied boots. So many cracks marred its smooth surface, but there was still sturdy rock beneath it. No matter the stampede of feet, or the erosion of rain and wind, forever would it with stand. "I have no more business with you, Saruman," he said quietly. His rage gave him conviction. "I search for the Ring only. I serve your evil no longer!"

Saruman stopped upon one of the stone steps. He did not face the madness of the son of Gondor, though, his eyes ahead. "Take your leave then, coward. You have done enough to destroy the good will of Middle Earth this day."

Fury burned through Boromir, and his sword exited his sheath with a loud ring. "Foul demon! You would so easily let an enemy draw upon you! It is you who is the coward!"

Saruman continued to walk. The Uruk-hai shouted in malicious anger, begging that they be allowed to contend with this meager threat to the great wizard. He brushed them aside. "You are but a leaf in the wind," the wizard explained quietly. "You turn with the breeze. The Ring does not release those called to its service. Reclaim your nobility if you wish, son of Denethor, though it be a fruitless endeavor. You will again kneel before your Master, and we shall be allies once more." Then the wizard entered his stronghold.

The wind whipped around him, and Boromir was gasping in hatred. He lowered his sword after a moment. The words echoed in his mind, burning into his heart, and shattering his tenuous peace. Would this be his vex, his punishment for his seduction? Was this the plight destined for a man who, despite his faults, wanted nothing more than to protect his people? Was this the curse of his beloved Ring?

Letting loose a tormented howl, he turned and ran.

* * *

><p>The plains of Rohan stretched far and wide, and Aragorn grew weary of the monotonous terrain. Each field of long grass was much like the last. Each small hill swelling in the soil was only one more to pass in this arduous trek. The land was ideal for tracking, for the bent grasses, though they swayed with the wind, spoke much of previous travelers. Great plots of the golden weeds were crushed, flattened by the fall of many large feet. For the Orc army to cut across the fields so carelessly meant they were sacrificing secrecy for speed. The thought disturbed the heir of Isildur. If they did possess the One Ring, the Fellowship would never be able to catch them.<p>

Yet he spoke none of this concern, or of the grief staunching his concentration. Days had passed since the disastrous fight at Amon Hen, and the crushing sorrow over the loss of their companions had not lifted from their shoulders. When the rain had come the sunset prior, it had only amplified their melancholy, and for hours no one had had the courage to speak. The sad state of affairs stomped out their chatter. No longer were tales traded or lyrics sung. Smiles were a rare and misplaced sight upon sallow and crestfallen faces. Aragorn feared divulging worries over the situation would only compound matters, so he kept the foul knowledge to himself. It festered in his heart, pushing him to move wordlessly faster, to drive the others harder. He could see the toll this strenuous pace had taken upon them, but he would not slow down. He would not give up.

The Hobbits lagged behind him, their steps uncertain and staggering. Every so often Merry and Pippin would attempt to lighten the mood with idle palaver, regaling some tale from the Shire they found of interest or engaging in outrageous gossip. Though their efforts were appreciated, they were often met with silence and apologetic glances. Frodo suffered the worst of them all. The blow to his had upset him more than he let on, which concerned Aragorn. He constantly tipped and wavered upon his feet, as though dizzy, and tired easily. Most of the food they convinced him to eat he later vomited, and his face was often flushed with fever. He hardly slept. He never spoke. Worse, though, was the consuming despair that haunted his eyes. It was as though the will to fight had left the courageous creature, leaving but a husk of a former self, a shade that was fading into sorrow. Aragorn dreaded the black that was calling Frodo. He feared he would not be able to remove the forlorn shadow from the Hobbit's face, or restore hope to a broken heart.

Gimli trudged with silent anger. Every line of the stout warrior's body was hard with barely contained rage, and his hands were forever clenched about the hilt of his axe. He seemed almost volatile, his eyes bright with murder, as he walked in the rear. He too had voiced little during the grueling journey, his face ruddy and his gaze distant. Aragorn was glad for his silent strength. He knew Gimli would now never falter until his vengeance was complete.

This was the state of what remained of the Fellowship. It was a tired, sad condition that begged for relief and for rest. The grasslands seemed vast and infinite, and though the trail was clear, the strength to follow it was fleeting.

Twilight came down, but great gray clouds hid the stars. Aragorn watched the puffy bodies dubiously, praying they would not again drench them with a cold rain. Such treatment would do nothing beneficial for the ailing Frodo. A cool breeze chased itself around the plains, sending the grasses rolling in waves. It brought with it a faint smell of distant things that distressed Aragorn, a rank stench of burning forest and death. It could only be coming from Isengard.

There was a tug upon his pants leg, and he looked down. Merry stood there, his Elven cloak drawn tight around himself against the slight chill. "Strider, we should stop," the small creature implored, looking up at him with a silent plea in his eyes. "Frodo needs to rest."

Aragorn looked back at that, where Pippin led a drooping and weak Frodo through the tall grasses. The young Took met his gaze with worried eyes. Then Aragorn glanced ahead, indecision filling him. A brief repose would not cause him to lose the trail. Ahead there was a copse of small trees. It would provide protection enough. "We will take respite ahead in that grove." He grasped Merry's shoulder. "Stopping here in the open is far too dangerous, my friend."

Merry smiled his thanks and then rushed back to his cousin. They shared some sort of jovial banter that lightened the ranger's glum heart before they began to walk again.

But a few minutes passed before they reached the trees. The sun was setting, retracting its warm caress from the world, leaving chilly air that was made colder by the shade. They settled inside it, upon the ground, which was littered in dry needles from the pines surrounding them. Pippin helped Frodo sit against a tree and then quickly drew blankets from his pack to cover the shivering Hobbit. "There, Frodo. I'll fix you something to eat."

Frodo did not answer, closing his eyes and swallowing heavily. Very worried, Aragorn knelt beside the sick Hobbit and laid a palm across his brow. Curly hair was plastered to his flushed face. "The fever has returned," the ranger announced sadly. He thought a moment and then reached into his own bags. His supply of medicinal herbs was dwindling; he would need to keep a watchful eye for some during the remainder of their journey.

The king went about preparing a broth while Merry and Pippin began dinner from the meager food supplies that remained. Gimli stood beside them, leaning upon the head of his shining axe. "The army has put great distance between themselves and us, Aragorn," the Dwarf commented sadly. "I know little of tracking, but the wind and time seemed to have weathered their footsteps."

Aragorn drew a slow breath as he poured fresh water from a flash into a blackened pot. Then he cleared the pine needles from the dry dirt. Merry appeared with rocks to separate a space for the fire. "True, friend," he admitted at last, wishing fervently to deny the apparent. "But we will yet catch them."

Gimli chose not to speak further, and Aragorn was grateful. The truth was achingly clear. The Orcs were swift, undoubtedly rushing their prize to their master. Bearing an injured companion had slowed the Fellowship. He could not blame poor Frodo in this; the small creature had suffered so for the burden he had bravely taken upon himself. Still, Aragorn alone could traverse the path far quicker and perhaps catch that which they restlessly pursued. Perhaps he could return the Ring to where it belonged. To think as such, though, was only folly, for he could never abandon his friends in such a dangerous territory.

A few moments later the fire was crackling warmly, crunching upon some dry kindling, and the water was boiling. He dropped the herbs he had crushed into the liquid. Pippin asked, breaking the heavy silence that had descended, "How far are we from them?"

The army had likely reached Isengard by now, but he could not bear to tell them. "A day or so maybe. We will come upon Isengard by nightfall tomorrow if we keep this pace."

Merry sat close to Frodo, one arm draped over the other's shoulder for support. His young eyes were alive as the fire gleamed in them with confused fear and apprehension. "What'll we do then, Aragorn?" he asked innocently.

The herbs had cooked enough, and this concoction he poured into a tin, dented cup. He hesitated, trying to find something to say that would not dissuade the others from their hopes. What could they do against an army of Orcs in the stronghold of the enemy? If Ring had already come onto Saruman, would fighting there be but a futile endeavor? He wished answers would appear to him instead of more infernal questions!

Honesty was the only choice left to him by his own guilt and anxiety. "I know not, Merry." He blew gently on the steaming broth to cool it. At seeing the Hobbit's fearful expression and tentative glances towards his kinsman, he gave a small smile. "I will think of something. I promise you."

That seemed to appease their concerns, for Merry returned his grin and then smiled at Pippin. Aragorn crouched again at Frodo's side. He patted the other's waxen cheek gently. "Frodo?" he prodded softly. When that failed to rouse the delirious Hobbit, he spoke louder. "Come, my friend, wake for a moment to drink this." Blue eyes fluttered open, glazed with fever and despair. Aragorn smiled gently, compassionately squeezing the small hands. "It will soothe your pain and lower your fever."

The Hobbit blinked a few times. Then the ground began to rumble gently. Pine needles jumped about like small, terrified souls, skittering as though they were tiny insects. Aragorn watched them dumbfounded a moment, and then a great thunder filled his ears. It grew louder and louder, crashing over the plains. He glanced about, his mind racing, and met Gimli's stony eyes. The great cacophony intensified until he could recognize it.

Hooves, beating with great speed upon the fields.

"Horses!" he hissed in sudden but controlled panicked. "Pippin, stomp out the fire! We must flee!" He stood and handed Merry the broth as Pippin scrambled do as the ranger ordered.

"Let the beasts come," Gimli hissed, "for it is cowardly to retreat before the fight begins!"

Aragorn ignored the taunt. To stay now would be only folly! Frodo was no condition for a skirmish. "Gimli, take Frodo and go. I will stay to distract them." Merry and Pippin turned suddenly and regarded him with wide, frightened, disbelieving eyes. "You two run as well."

Gimli shook his head vehemently. "Nay, Aragorn, that-"

"Do as I say!" the ranger barked sharply. The frightened Hobbits then scattered, grabbing their paraphernalia and stuffing it haphazardly into their packs. Gimli muttered something inaudible as he knelt and pulled Frodo to his feet.

The Hobbit shook his head. "Don't leave us, Aragorn," he moaned in absolute terror. Aragorn's heart shuddered, and he drew his sword.

"Take him. Fly!"

But it was too late. The snorts of horses grew loud upon the air. From the shadows came the mounts, stampeding powerfully through the maze of the grove to surround them. They were magnificent steeds, stallions of white, black, and chestnut, with powerful, elegant gaits and tall statures. Atop them sat armored men, their silver plate and chain shining and glimmering despite the fading daylight. Swords were drawn and bows were taut. Aragorn glanced about, panic rising, his heart thundering. They were completely enclosed, and these appeared extraordinarily skilled soldiers, for their mounts were extremely well-trained. Eyes glinted threateningly.

"You have trespassed upon the lands of the King of the Mark," one declared. He was seated upon a great stallion, and his physique did match that of his beast. Great, tangled blond hair flowed from beneath a gilded helmet. "Drop your weapon!"

Aragorn released a slow breath. He had heard of this brigade of men. They were famous riders, skilled with training their horses, who patrolled the plains of Rohan in the name of the king. Slowly he set his bright and dangerous sword upon the ground.

The man atop the horse narrowed his eyes. "State your business, stranger, and be brief," he ordered.

"We bring no threat to your lands. I am called Strider, and these are my companions," he said simply, keeping all impatience and aggression from his tone. "We only seek to travel through these plains, but a sickness has come to my friend here, and we have tarried."

The other glanced at Aragorn, then to Gimli. His narrowed eyes seemed to pierce the group. Frodo swallowed uncomfortably. "Curious company you keep, stranger," he remarked suspiciously. Then the mounted warrior looked to the ranger once more. The hard gaze softened. "We mean you no ill will, but a black threat has but days ago violated our borders."

Aragorn felt tense muscles begin to relax. "Aye, we have encountered it. It is what we pursue, for we believe the foul creatures have killed one of our comrades, and possibly taken captive another." He felt Gimli stiffen.

The man nodded and then dismounted gracefully. The horse snorted, and the soldier patted its neck brotherly. "Black news is this! However, I cannot allow you to continue this quest, for usury is afoot in these times. You must come with us."

Aragorn tensed in anger and dismay. The Ring would surely fall into evil if they were to abandon it now! "If I were to provide you with a token of good faith, friend, surely you may make an exception," he said quickly.

The man gave a grave smile. "I do not doubt your word is true, but it is not my place to make exceptions in the laws of my king." He gestured to them. "You must seek permission from him."

_There is not the time for this! _Aragorn's mind screamed, but his face remained impassive. "How might I do such?" he questioned, trying to control his temper and his patience.

Nodding curtly, the soldier explained, "I will lead you. You seem a man of good stock, so I will behest you an audience. I am Éomer of Rohan; I hold the king's ear." He gestured to them. "In the meantime, we shall care for your ill friend as well. Let us make haste, for demons crawl these woods with the coming of night."

_Éomer of Rohan, leader of the Riders of Rohan. _ Aragorn eyed the other warily, but saw no other choice. He nodded to Gimli, the Dwarf tense with distrust. Still, wordlessly he submitted to Aragorn's leadership, and he handed the unconscious Frodo to one rider. Aragorn closed his eyes briefly to steady himself. This was unfortunate indeed. Although he was glad to find aid that Frodo sorely needed in this unforgiving land, they could not afford to linger now.

As he climbed to the horse behind Éomer, Aragorn cursed this foul turn of things. Pain clenched his heart for the loss of Legolas. The sharp grief that had stabbed at him for days suddenly reached a horrible climax, and as they turned from the glade, tears stung his eyes. A vow they had made long ago would further be broken, and he cursed himself to allowing such a terrible event to come to pass. If his dear friend still lived, every moment spent here would augment the Elf's suffering. Aragorn prayed silently that the Orcs had killed Legolas, for that was vastly preferable to an endless time of torture and cruelty. A loving Elf-brother, his closest friend, laid to ruin because of his own pride! Had he but listened to warnings the blond archer had spoken, the Fellowship might have been spared. As it was, he could not amend his oversight, and his crimes would forever torment him. Legolas would suffer for them, die for them. He damned himself for his betrayal!

And poor Sam. Loyal and brave Sam. If he too was among the Orcs, they would surely kill him upon reaching Isengard. The last of his hopes in finding their lost comrades was stomped out by the pounding hooves of racing horses. Resting here would bring him no closer to fulfilling his vow to Frodo.

The very fate of them all rested upon his success, and the One Ring would not wait to exert its evil.


	6. Hope Remains

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER SIX: HOPE REMAINS**

Mordor was indeed a black place, filled with scourges not easily imagined from such a quiet hamlet as the Shire. Jagged, sharp rocks tore at Sam's feet as he walked, but it was but a small discomfort. Great dark mountains stretched infinitely, meshing with dirty, smoky clouds and fiery skies. The air was hot and rank, scorching his lungs each time he inhaled, making breathing a sore trial. No life seemed to survive here, as though the environment was unendurable and impermeable to even the smallest spot of moss. Sam detested this wretched land and longed for the soft, friendly forests and rolling fields of Hobbiton, where the sky always seemed the brightest blue and the air was fresh. He idly wondered how any creature, even those as foul and frightening as Orcs, might find the barren and rocky plains hospitable.

The small Hobbit rounded a hill of gray slate, creeping slowly about the warm, protective rock. As of yet, he believed his presence in the outskirts of this foul land had gone unnoticed, and the thought brought him confidence. He pressed himself against the rock and looked beyond. His heart sank. Here again he had wished that something might break the crushing, evil monotony of his path. Before him lay nothing but a vast wasteland of lifeless rock and acrid smoke, and his hope faded. He supposed it had been only wistful to expect the unlikely, but in the silence of his ever-present doubt and fear, he found that dream a spot of light in the lonely shadows of his heart, and upon crossing every crest and ridge, he let himself imagine again that this step would be the last. Sighing now, his shoulders slumping, Sam continued upon his way.

Time passed slowly for the solitary walker, and his thoughts were poor company for they were riddled with fears, guilt, and skepticism. A few hours before he decided to calculate the amount of time he thought had passed since reaching the eastern shore of Anduin, but a rough estimate of perhaps a week was the best with which his lethargic mind could supply him. It seemed infinitely longer, and he was tired. Before the horrible Ring had shattered the peace of their lives, he had never traveled far from the Shire, and certainly he had never ventured far into the world alone. Ruefully he realized how very much he had changed. Being alone for so long before had been a terrifying prospect to which he had grown accustomed. Upon no one else could he rely, but that undeniable truth brought him strength. Only he could determine the course of his feet. Only his wit and stealth protected him.

Though he was unsure of the way, he knew the slopes of Mount Doom rose far in the east. After passing through the fetid sumps of Emyn Muil and miraculously descending its high and perilous bluffs, he had stood on a great precipice overlooking the barren lands ahead. There in the distance the clouds glowed a bloody red, and he had supposed that was the fires of Mount Doom scorching the sky. Perhaps with a bit of luck, he might happen upon it. Sam narrowed his eyes as he walked then. Nay, luck was not a dependable ally. Fortune turned her favor too easily; she was a cunning and fickle witch that could give and then take, that could bless as effortlessly as curse, and in her wake nothing but regret and pity wallowed. He would make his own destiny. It was his to mold, to shape, and to embrace. Cradling this idea deep inside him as well brought him courage to do what was required of him.

And so he walked. The stone was hard beneath his feet, but thick skin protected his bones, and his gait was steady. He tried to avoid wide, open areas as he remembered the dark forces employed a great many unlikely spies, and being spotted by hawk or beast would do him no good. Strider had taught the Hobbits a great many things about traveling stealthily, and here he put those useful lessons to work. As well, Legolas had once instructed Merry, Pippin, and him in the art of treading lightly to leave faint tracks and conserve energy. Even Boromir's training with the short sword he kept fresh, running over the various attacks, feints, and counters in his mind, in case the need should arise to fight.

He shuddered at the thought of his comrades. Boromir's betrayal still burned his heart with anger and his eyes with tears. The man had been such a good friend, and a valiant defender. Sam had had only the deepest respect for him. However, the brutality of what Boromir had done to Legolas before his very eyes had shredded his admiration. He prayed the others would save Legolas. Even though he knew the Elf's logic had been sound when he had parted company with him, Sam ached inside when he reconsidered it. When the dire depression of his surroundings became overwhelming, his mind inevitably wandered to the plight to which he had left his friends. Guilt compounded his sorrow, and pity begot much the same. It often took all his strength to pull himself from the distressing murk. Even still, he had to concentrate upon the vow he had made to himself to find strength. He knew Frodo would have done the same.

Sam missed Frodo terribly. No matter how he twisted, turned, or tried to rationalize the horrid events that had transpired, he could not lighten the dread in his heart for his lost friend. For so long he and Frodo had been close, inseparable companions in work and play, brothers in laughter and sorrow. To now be apart, and the events that had led to their division had been beyond vicious, troubled him greatly. He could not help but wonder if ever again he would be graced by Frodo's gentle smile or easing voice and gaze.

He was forced to digress, though, because mourning too deeply for the past distracted him from the present, and he would need all his wits to survive in this wretched place. Once long ago his father had told him that he thought too much. A rare occurrence it was to have his mind blank! Still, he could not change what he was. He was Samwise Gamgee, a meek and shy Hobbit that had never before left his home but had found the will to continue this quest in the face of great adversity. No matter what became of him, he would always be that, and that made him proud. This brought him solace.

Mordor was calling the Ring, even as he walked along its borders. It was a peculiar feeling, carrying this small trinket of great power into the land of its making. To him it spoke not of evil or of power; its tale was a sad story of illogical temptation and immorality. He did not understand why the Ring was so horrible, only that this at least would always be the truth. Wearing it about his neck made his skin crawl with apprehension. It was a constant threat, a silent scream of danger that never ceased its howl, and he wished nothing more than to simply be done with it. Now at least he could understand the burden that Frodo had worn upon his fearful face so many times during their arduous journey. The Ring's touch was unnerving indeed. It seemed to revel in the stench and heat of the air. He grew more fearful with each step that he would not be able to keep it hidden. After all, how could he? The awesome instrument of domination wanted nothing more than to be found by the eyes of this horrid land that constantly sought it!

Once again he stifled his thoughts. Agonizing himself over events that he could neither control nor predict would accomplish little more than further riling his resolve, and he could not afford to be distressed. Shrugging deeper into his coat, holding his pack tight about his shoulders, he trudged onward.

An hour or so later he came upon a concealing furrow of sorts between two large hills, and he decided to rest for a brief luncheon. Quietly he rummaged through his bag for the apple he knew to be buried within it. Knowing that the vegetation of Mordor would be sparse, he had collected all the food he could before leaving the woods along the Anduin and entering Emyn Muil. Aragorn had explained what fruits and roots were good to eat, and what would upset his stomach. The teachings had seemed frivolous at the time, but now he was eternally grateful. He would have starved by now if not for them.

He sat and munched upon the red fruit, and looked to the sky. The black clouds would not part and let much light through, and he glared angrily at them. How he wished to feel the sun! At least the apple tasted wonderful, its tangy sweetness a welcomed reminder of home. He savored each bite and chewed slowly and gratefully. Even a distressed Hobbit could not deny the pleasure of his palate, after all.

Suddenly came a soft sound, like the brushing of cloth against legs, and he looked to his side. The rock he was nestled beside obscured most of his view, and he could only see the dirt around its corner. The noise came again, this time louder and more pronounced. Footsteps. Sam felt his body wash cold with terror, and the apple fell suddenly from trembling, weak fingers. Somebody was coming!

Sam swallowed heavily and closed his eyes. To regain his composure was a struggle, for his strength had suddenly become fleeting. His entire body shook. What was he to do? How could they have found him? The footsteps grew louder, closer, and Sam winced, forcing his shaking body to still and his rushed breath to quiet. Fear made him dizzy, and his heart was booming.

The approaching menace stopped. It was but a few feet away now. When it continued, it would pass the rock and undoubtedly see him! He must flee!

"I know you hide," came a low voice.

Panic snapped inside him, and he moved without thinking. With a cry of terror and anger, he ripped around, clumsily pulling his weapon. His thick fingers accidentally caught the sheath, pulling the entire case from his belt, and he charged forward with his eyes squeezed shut. The blunt edge of the sheath met cloth and then bone, and there was a gasp of pain. "Confound it, Samwise Gamgee!"

That voice!

Sam opened his eyes and skittered back, his sword falling from his shaking hands. There before him stood Gandalf. The old wizard's ancient and wrinkled face was tight in a grimace of discomfort as he hopped unceremoniously, one large hand rubbing his shin where Sam's attack had hit. His great mane of gray hair was as tangled as ever, and his thick bushy beard seemed more streaked with white than Sam last remembered. His tall stature, which spoke of fierce pride, power, and wisdom, seemed even all the more awe-inspiring, for now he bore robes of the purest white, like freshly laid snow. His garb seemed starkly misplaced in the black of the land that surrounded them.

Something shattered inside Sam, and he lurched forward in wonderment and overwhelming relief. "Oh, Gandalf!" he cried joyously, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks, as he buried himself into the ancient wizard.

Gandalf smiled fatherly as the small creature tumbled into his embrace, kneeling to catch him. The Istar's arms were warm and smelled of old books and sweet pipe smoke. The wizard hugged him tightly. "It is a blessing to see you again, little Hobbit," the old man said, his voice a deep rumble from within his chest.

Great waves of release exited Sam in sobs. Such a blessing to have found a friendly face in this hellish world! No longer now would he struggle alone! His heart quaked in reprieve as he clung to Gandalf. For quite a while he was content in this simple contact, releasing the pain and fear he had bottled inside him for the sake of his newfound duty. When he tired, he pulled back. "But Mister Gandalf," he said, sniffling, wiping his nose with his sleeve, "we saw you die! The balrog pulled you into shadow!"

The Istar bade him a small grin, his eyes twinkling with characteristic mirth. "I have lived a very long time, my dear Sam, and faced many perils! Alas, the matter of my survival is but a trivial thing now, for great dissonance has apparently come to the Fellowship."

Sam nodded sadly. "It has," he said softly, looking to the wizard with imploring eyes, "though it wasn't any fault of Mister Frodo's! Boromir turned, I think, and brought strife to us all! When I was last with them, Strider was gone. I don't know what happened to the Master Dwarf or Merry and Pippin, for I went to find Mister Frodo. I failed in that, but I came upon the camp of the Orcs that had attacked us. They had captured Legolas, but he fought and brought the Ring from Boromir to me. Now I carry it." Sam's hand came over his chest, where the small trinket was hidden. "This was the last I saw of them all. Tell me, are they well?"

Gandalf's face grew solemn, and that was enough to slash the feeble hopes Sam still treasured. "I do not know," he admitted gravely, "for I came to the borders of Mordor at the behest of logic. This is where the Fellowship would be, had it not split. It worries me that only you remain." The wizard sighed slowly, the breath long and great. Sam looked to him, wishing that he would hold some comfort to ease his heart. "This is dark news indeed."

Gandalf seemed greatly troubled, and that only served to distress Sam more. The Hobbit leaned back upon his heels and sighed solemnly. "What are we to do, Gandalf?" he asked gently, tentatively.

The wizard's eyes were lost in thought and for a long moment he did not speak, leaving Sam to his own anxieties. Then his gaze grew focused. "We cannot turn back," he stated simply, although he sounded like he despised the finality of his words. "There is but one choice: we must press on." Sam released a long breath and swallowed the pain in his throat. Gandalf stood slowly. "Yes, this we must do. My heart goes out to the others, and I pray they will find a path to follow us!"

Sam rose to his feet. "I worry, Gandalf, for Mister Frodo, and for Master Legolas." He looked down to hide his tears. "I broke my promise to you, sir, and I'm sorry," he admitted shamefully after a moment, guilt plaguing him.

The wizard's eyes were upon distant horizons. A large, old hand with kind, strong fingers clasped his shoulder reassuringly. "Have faith, my friend. Though separated, the Fellowship remains strong. Bonds forged in peril and danger are not easily broken." Gandalf gave him a gentle grin and steadied him with a proud gaze. "You have done well, Sam. Even here your heart guards Frodo, and you have neither broken your promise nor my trust. It is your strength now that carries our quest, and for your bravery I am grateful."

The words gave him solace. This was the truth. The gratitude which with Gandalf obliged him warmed his heart, chasing away the cold grip of despair, and for the first time in a great while he smiled.

The wizard grunted and looked ahead. "Come. The road is long and hard, but no longer shall you walk it alone." Then he stepped forward.

Sam released a cleansing breath, and then followed.

* * *

><p>Mirkwood was a dark place when night came to it, for the dense canopy of the forest hid the light of the moon. As woods grew thick with shadow, often they came alive with fireflies and wisps. It truly was a beautiful sight as the forest made magic of its own accord, and the trees regaled their songs to the stars. Here, where the Silvan Elves made their home, the forest was safe haven, and the creatures lived in a quiet and loving harmony. Many leagues south were the borders of the kingdom of Thranduil, and those forests were quite a different place. There no light penetrated, and a dangerous gloom forever clung to the limbs of the trees. Beasts and terrors that the light of the sun never uncovered roamed those woods, making their murky roads not often traveled. A tenuous peace existed between these forests, the one that basked in the light and the other that dwelled in the darkness, and not often did Elf and beast cross paths.<p>

This night, though, the wisps did not shed their ethereal light and creatures of the forest were silent. It was still, forlorn, and fearful. The silence was disheartening and melancholic. A dramatic mourning had come over it, and the serenity of the emptiness was false, for the trees were tense in despair and anger for the turmoil of a child lost to them.

The palace of the royal family was dark this night as well. Great corridors and rooms were blackened, candles left unlit, and were idle and vacant. The huge home was still in the dark. There was no talk, no song. Servants tread on silent feet, milling about chores and tasks lethargically. They did not speak of the ominous shadow that had descended upon the House of Thranduil.

In the great dining hall sat the middle sons of Mirkwood. Upon a long, polished oak table rested two candles. Their light was meager, doing little to chase back the blackness, and their wicks were all but depleted. The great table had many times in the past seen joyous feasts and celebrations. Many Elves had sat around it during times of war and times of peace, chatting, debating, eating. It seemed frustrated and lonely now, as if in these dark times a history of use and care meant nothing.

A dinner had been left to cool, wine left untouched in goblets. The two Elf princes sat opposite each other near the table's head, their king's great chair vacant. Outside the servants murmured their concern, for the twins of Thranduil, Aratadarion and Astaldogald, had spent nearly an hour in a tense silence, waiting for their father to descend from his private chambers and their older brother to return from his rounds.

Around them a thick void had festered for quite some time. Words seemed misplaced in the emptiness. The two often engaged in light-hearted banter, for closeness in the womb had extended for thousands of years. They were quite a bit younger than the first born, Vardaithil, and also nearly two millennium older the youngest brother, Legolas. This great difference in ages of Thranduil's children had served more to naturally divide them than unite them. Only the twins remained inseparable. They were each other's compliment, as many a visitor had noted. Astaldogald was of a lighter coloring than Aratadarion, his hair a light brown or a dirty blond depending on the state of the sun. This he had inherited from their late mother, but the resemblance truly ended there. He bore the fiery features of his father and older brother, a square chin, high cheekbones, and finely etched eyes and brow bringing power and arrogance to his face. Aratadarion was truly a blend of both parents, for he was raven-haired and his skin of dark tones, yet his face was softer, with gentle, wide, inquisitive eyes and full lips. This he bore in similarity to Legolas, though he lacked the innocent glow and fair beauty that so graced his little brother.

In mind as well they contradicted. They were almost like two halves of the same heart. Astaldogald was a spitfire, stubborn and a bit conceited. Both Thranduil and Vardaithil were the same, though their temper had been cooled by centuries of experience in both court and battle. This twin was quick to anger and slow to cool. He had little patience or tolerance for foolery or stupidity. Though his heart was noble, his tongue could be harsh. When the little Legolas had incurred his older brother's wrath, the child had often been left in tears by Astaldogald's sarcastic insults. Opinionated and vociferous, he was seldom silent when occasion bade him to be. His twin, however, was meek and timid. Aratadarion rarely spoke his mind or concerned himself with the world beyond studying and singing. His beauty was soft and silent. He went where his twin led him, content to let Astaldogald deal with matters of state and war. He was not as skilled as his brother in the art of fighting, and knew little about ruling a kingdom. As quiet and compassionate as their mother had been, he was rarely angered.

So they sat in silence, one restless and the other melancholy. The unspoken thought hung over them like a plume of tension. They had both felt their brother's anguish as acutely as their father had. The horrible tiding draped over the entire kingdom, stamping out merriment, and for the first time since the death of their mother, the House of Thranduil was void of the song of the trees.

"Vardaithil must have been detained," Astaldogald grumbled finally. His tight voice seemed so loud, shattering the precarious silence. "How long has it been?"

Aratadarion released a long breath, his great, thick locks of dark hair still as it cascaded down his narrow shoulders. "Perhaps an hour. I know not."

"Father would do well to ease his heart and take his supper," the other remarked ruefully.

"He is sick with worry. We all are. Do not fault him for loving his son," Aratadarion commented quietly, seeing the fire smolder in his brother's gray eyes.

Astaldogald released a curt breath and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. Slender fingers reached forward and snatched a bit of bread from the platter long ago set before him. "I fault no one," he said simply, biting into what he had taken, "save Legolas. He has brought great sadness upon our family and our kingdom for his selfish insolence."

Aratadarion was silent a moment, lowering his eyes to the table. He did not share his twin's contempt for their brother. Since Legolas' birth, Thranduil had taken special interest in the babe their mother had named for the trees of Mirkwood. Astaldogald had for centuries before basked in their father's attention, for he was a needy child and Thranduil was happy to oblige his son. When the twins had come of age, it had no longer been proper for Thranduil to dote upon them, and Astaldogald had suffered hard in the years after, for he was neither the first-born heir nor the favored son. Their younger brother's glowing beauty and innocence angered Astaldogald, who had neither and wanted both. Moreover, Legolas was a strange Elf. He could within a breath be calm and serious then suddenly impulsive and brash. He loved Middle Earth with a passion that Aratadarion could hardly begin to understand. The Elf child's name had indeed shaped him. The strange naiveté with which Legolas viewed all things seemed out of place in the experienced House of Thranduil. When their beloved mother had passed, the sons had begun to divide, differences becoming irreconcilable. Legolas sudden interest in places and people beyond Mirkwood had served to make matters worse. Astaldogald's distaste had reached its pinnacle maybe ten years prior, when Legolas had become close to the man of the House of Elrond, Estel. Even now his twin's harsh and vicious condemnation of Legolas rang in Aratadarion's ears. He was a perceptive Elf, a gift from his mother, and he knew why their fair little brother had taken so easily to the king of men. They were both different from their people. They were both in an exile of sorts. But Astaldogald could not understand this, and the peace between Legolas and his brothers had shattered. Thranduil had done nothing, particularly taken with his wine and wealth at the time. And the tension had festered like an open wound.

Aratadarion could not fault his twin though. Astaldogald loved all things Elvish. Traditions he kept dear to his heart, and with such a mindset came heavy prejudices. These Thranduil and Vardaithil had encouraged, but they had become too engrossed with higher matters to see the bigotry they had instilled in Astaldogald. His twin cherished Elvish song, Elvish literature, and Elvish thought. The Calling to the Grey Havens was a beautiful gift. Men and Dwarves and Hobbits were lesser beasts, with silly and trite problems that could plague only foolish mortals. He frowned upon them as he frowned upon Legolas' compassion for them.

Aratadarion did not want to anger his brother, so he said nothing, only frowned as Astaldogald chewed darkly upon his bread. Enough derision existed between the sons of Thranduil; he had no wish to create more.

The great, oak doors of the dining chamber suddenly opened with a heavy moan and a creak. Through the portal, held ajar by a maid, stepped Vardaithil. Both the twins rose at his entrance. Their brother looked weary, his face long with shadow and exhaustion, as he nodded to them each. His hair was dark, held in place by braids, and its deep brown served to make his face whiter. He was a regal Elf, his stature forever tall with pride and elegance. Never did he misplace a word or movement, and his face was at once ageless and wise. He had received the lion's share of their father's dark handsome strength. He would one day be king, and it showed his confident speech and powerful gait. "He has not yet come down?" Vardaithil inquired, glancing between his siblings.

"Nay, Vardaithil, and the hour grows late," Astaldogald declared, settling his hard gaze upon his brother.

Vardaithil hesitated a moment, his blue eyes distant in thought. Aratadarion watched him contemplate, and felt his brother's exhaustion. In the months before Legolas had left, the youngest and oldest of Thranduil's sons had together spent many an hour guarding the southern borders against the suddenly revived anger of roaming Orcs. It was a job with which they were all well acquainted. As princes, it was their sworn duty to protect the kingdom at all costs, and when the dark forces beyond their borders rallied, they were often called to lead their army into a skirmish. Since Legolas' departure, this responsibility had fallen to Vardaithil alone, and this added stress had worn the energy from his face and hands. Aratadarion was glad, though, for his brother's silent endurance brought them all strength in these dark times.

Finally Vardaithil moved to his seat. "We shall wait then," he said simply, sitting gracefully. At Astaldogald's tiring eyes, his expression hardened. "Mind yourself, my brother." Astaldogald scowled at the reprimand but said nothing, instead lowering his eyes shamefully to the last bit of crust in his hands.

They sat in silence once more, thoughts elsewhere, each alone in private reverie of their own creation. Most painful was the absence of Legolas. Even when he had been traveling, the ghost of his presence lurked about their home, bringing light and joy. Now its disappearance was acutely painful, the chair where he often sat during their meals beside Aratadarion powerfully empty. For the silence of their home! What had become of their little brother?

After a long moment, Astaldogald's eyes regained a hard glint. "Father should have never sent him to Rivendell," he declared. His voice held a great many things: anger, concern, spite. A painful scene reentered Aratadarion's over-active mind. The boom of his twin's voice in this very room had been sharp when word had returned via messenger from Rivendell that Legolas had left with his man friend, a Dwarf, a soldier from Gondor, and four Hobbits on a crazy quest to destroy the One Ring. To Astaldogald this action on the part of their brother had been the ultimate folly. Neither his father nor Vardaithil seemed willing to defend Legolas' decision against Astaldogald's vicious contempt, sufficing it only to refuse to send riders to recall the young, rebellious prince. In Astaldogald's critical eyes, Legolas' choice had been selfish. The Fellowship had been only an opportunity to escape this house, which he so haughtily disliked. To venture out with men and a filthy Dwarf, even after their father's repeated warnings concerning the vile mining race, on a futile journey to destroy the bane of Isildur, to correct a wrong made even before his birth, seemed a foul decision made in a heated moment of egotistical anger. Aratadarion had to admit that even he did not completely see the nobility in the actions of Legolas. His brother's mind, so swept by loyalty to lesser creatures, worked in ways he could not fathom.

Still, he sensed what was coming and cringed inwardly. The disaster that had come of Legolas' rash departure would be an ideal way for his twin to renew his argument and restore his beaten pride. Aratadarion detested the way his brothers bickered!

"The ways of men have corrupted the House of Thranduil," Astaldogald murmured, shaking his head disdainfully.

Vardaithil released a slow breath. The tension crackled like lightning. "Do not broach this subject again, Astaldogald," he warned quietly. "I have not the strength for it now. Impetuous as he may be, Legolas is of age to make decisions for himself."

But Astaldogald would not be so easily appeased. "Nay, brother, he is too easily swayed by his love for the lesser kinds! He has disgraced our father, our kingdom, and abandoned us now in a time of need! And now his brash actions have left him peril! This I will not overlook!"

Vardaithil's eyes flashed threateningly. "You will because I demand it," he ordered lowly, an unspoken warning in his tight tone. "What has happened to our brother is no more his fault than it was Father's for laying upon him the task of bearing the message of Sméagol's escape to Rivendell. I trust you do not seek to judge the wise ways of our King!"

"I seek only to express my anger," Astaldogald shouted, rising from his chair with the scrape of wooden legs against a stone floor, "that Legolas has caused such toil in our home! Had Father reprimanded him in the error of his ways long ago, we might have prevented this disgrace!"

Vardaithil now rose as well, and his voice echoed through the dining chamber. "Step down, brother, and I will dismiss your insubordination as nothing more than thoughtless words spoken in distress!"

Aratadarion winced as he observed his siblings stare each other down. Oh, but for the pain inside him! How very many times before had this same conflict arise between kin! He could see the jealousy burn in his twin's gaze, and great war was raged behind the heat of his eyes: a battle of decorum and pride. As it often did, his own arrogance seemingly tainted his logic. "Legolas deserves what has befallen him. At least now his fear and humiliation will teach him to hold his wanton desires!"

Anger blazed in the oldest son's glare as he opened his mouth to counter, but he was interrupted before he could speak. "Stop this at once!" came a disgusted and irritated order. Aratadarion rose immediately in reverence.

There in the doorway stood Thranduil. The great king, older than ages, glared upon his children with disappointed scorn. He was a mighty creature, his shoulders broad and his form tall. His face was lined, betraying all he had experienced in his expansive life. His long flaxen hair was held back from his high, flawless brow by an ornate crown. Expensive leggings composed of the richest thread hugged his body, and his tunic was as well lavish, beset with gold and the bright colors of his kingdom. He was an imposing force, demanding respect and admiration. Few Elves dared to stand in opposition to him, for his wealth, stature, and power was greatly intimidating. Though his influence had waned a bit in the last few centuries in the wake of his recent love of wine and wealth, Thranduil still struck fear into many, and demanded the highest regard.

His obstinate jaw was firmly set in anger, and the harsh hardness of his eyes caused his sons to bow their heads. "I will not tolerate such insolence!" The bite of the words caused Astaldogald to stiffen and look away in shame. For a moment, no one spoke. Thranduil stepped inside and headed to his ornate chair at the head of the dinner table. He closed his eyes and released a long breath. "My meditations are wrought with fear. I cannot find peace, and I will not have you bring more discord into my House." The admittance disheartened his sons.

Vardaithil regarded his father with concern. In this, the plight of his youngest, Thranduil's toil and exhaustion were evident upon his narrow face in a rare show of weakness. "Father, what would you have us do?" he asked, reaching forward to grasp the king's arm.

Thranduil closed his eyes a moment, as if searching for inner strength. Seldom had his children seen him so shaken. Finally the king looked upon them again. "Legolas' distress is great," he declared quietly, and the worry dripped from his weary tone. "I fear for him."

"Father, I-"

"Shush!" Thranduil bellowed at Astaldogald, startling Aratadarion and causing the young Elf to jump in his seat. Venom burned like bright flames in the king's glare. "Remember yourself, child! You will not speak ill of Legolas, for he is your brother, and _my_ son! In this House, kin protects kin! You betray him with your hatred!"

Astaldogald trembled, but this time would not relent to his twin's dismay. "I only ache for you, my Lord!" he declared, hurt glistening in his eyes.

"That may be so, my son, but it is not your place to judge the wisdom of your elders. Lord Elrond bereft Legolas to aid the Fellowship of the Ring. This is not yours to question, so hold your contempt," his father admonished. Slowly the king regained himself, his words echoing in the hallow chamber. For a long moment, no one spoke, shaken with strong emotion. Then again the king spoke to his princes. "I have made a decision," he announced slowly. He raised his eyes and gazed upon the twins, their strength imploring his children. "My youngest son writhes in agony, and this we cannot ignore." He turned to his heir. "Vardaithil, I cannot afford to lose your command at my borders, though Legolas would most benefit from your strength." Astaldogald grew tense, and the crust broke into crumbs in his fist. Aratadarion looked to his twin, but his gaze was not acknowledged. "Thus I dispatch this task to you, my twins. Ride hard to the south, to Lothlórien. Our kin of the Golden Wood will undoubtedly aid you. Deliver your brother from the darkness that now imprisons him and bring him home."

Spite burned in Astaldogald's gaze. "You would sacrifice two for the sake of one?" he hissed, his voice seething.

Thranduil's own anger rivaled his rash son's. "Nay," he declared lowly, "but neither would I sacrifice one for the sake of your pride. Hold your tongue, Astaldogald, for you make yourself into a jealous wretch with your words." The Elf grimaced then, ashen, and grew silent with quivering shame and rage. Aratadarion felt his father's piercing gaze upon him. "Let your love for him be your strength. A black shadow steals his light and his will; you will fight for him." The orders were clear. Thranduil's face relaxed, and he sighed gently in fear and worry. "I will not have any of my sons pass into the cold night. Now, go. Do not disobey your king, and do not disappoint your father."

A long empty minute stretched on, and all were still with pain. Aratadarion felt his heart grow heavy and afraid. This would be a great task for him. Never before had he surmounted such a quest. He was weak with sword and knife. His eyes were not quick and his reflexes betrayed his slovenly fighting prowess. He on no account had traveled far from the safety of Mirkwood. He quaked in doubt, though he could never deny this duty. How would he do this?

He glanced to Vardaithil, wishing his fair protector to bless him with a reassuring smile. His hope was granted. Relieved, he turned to his twin.

Astaldogald grunted in fury and stalked away. Angry shouting filled the corridors beyond, and the scurrying of terrified footsteps echoed as servants rushed to fulfill the vicious commands of their lord. Aratadarion winced. His father's voice drew his attention. "My fair Aratadarion," he said gently, lovingly. Aratadarion looked to his king, and was heartened by the fatherly affection clear on the ancient Elf's face. "Be well, and care for your brothers. The metal of your heart is your greatest virtue." He drew a breath to steady himself before taking his leave as well. As he did, he felt a resolution that not often graced him fill his heart. _Be strong, Legolas,_ he thought. _We are coming for you._


	7. A Path Again Found

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER SEVEN: A PATH AGAIN FOUND**

Frodo awoke to a gray morning, and the air was chilly and damp. The cold invaded the layers of fur blankets he found covering him, and he slunk deeper into their warmth, closing his eyes against the outside world. For a moment peace returned to him, and he could shun his curiosity and concerns. But the groggy doze was fleeting, and a booming voice suddenly filled his ears. "Frodo," came a familiar tone. Then there was a grim laugh. "Wake now. You've slept too long, and it won't do you much good to miss another meal."

He broke free from sleep permanently this time, and leaned up. His body was stiff and leaden, and his mind felt as though it was stuffed with wool. Though his thoughts were dull, memory slowly mingled with sensation, and he began to wonder. The small room around him was composed of dark stone. A fire burned happily in a hearth on the opposite wall, warding away the chill and shadows. He was in an old, creaky bed, which was flanked by three others. A few other dusty, aged furnishings adorned the area, one of which, a chair, was occupied by a smoking Merry. "Where are we?" Frodo croaked, surprised to find his voice a dry rasp.

Merry offered him a reassuring grin as he stood and handed him a mug of water from the bed stand beside him. "Rohan, I think. The kingdom of the Mark it's called." Merry puffed appreciatively on his pipe while he watched Frodo drink. The water tasted glorious, sweet and cool.

Frodo did not recognize the name. "How long?" he asked, confusion widening his blue eyes.

"You've been sleeping for about a week. Not much has really happened. We've been kept inside since we arrived. These men don't appear to trust Strider much," Merry declared almost apologetically.

"Do they know about us?" Frodo asked, unable to hide the frightened tone in his voice.

"I don't think they do," Merry responded, "and they've been nice enough, only they won't let us go. They're a strange folk. They don't much know about Hobbits. Can you imagine?" The small creature gave a bit of a laugh, though the sound seemed forced and contrived. Frodo grinned feebly. "Then again, they don't recognize Strider either."

"I thought he was their king," Frodo said, his fingers tracing the outline of a bandage wrapped about his brow. Beneath the white cloth, the wound upon his temple was still sore, and he grimaced.

Merry shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't know, Frodo. Strider hasn't told them anything. I don't know what he hopes to gain by his secrecy. We're too close to Isengard, he says, to trust anybody."

_Isengard. _ Shameful guilt returned to Frodo then, and he bowed his head. The last week or so before he had collapsed had not been some grotesque nightmare then, no matter how he had wished it to be so. Instinctively his hand came to his neck, where for months the Ring had hung, hidden by the cover of his clothes and the strength of his heart. Where once its wretched weight had rested there was now nothing but a stark silence and the feel of his own flesh and bone. Sighing softly, he closed his eyes. The violence in Boromir's eyes, the painful power of his grip, again assaulted his senses, and tears burned. How could he have failed? When they had beached the boats upon Amon Hen, the wind had turned cold, and he had felt a gross premonition crawl over his skin, tickling his senses. Boromir's lustful gaze had burned into him. Still, even with this foreboding and Galadriel's warnings, he had not been able to stop the son of Gondor from seizing the Ring. It had been his sole responsibility. The penance for such a crime was beyond any of his worst fears. "The Ring has reached Isengard surely by now," he finally moaned, averting his eyes from Merry.

It was silent aside from the crack and pop of the fire. Then Merry reached forward and grasped his shoulder. "You did the best you could. We all did."

The words were little consolation, but Frodo nodded his thanks, and reached up to take Merry's small hand in his own. He was glad then that he and Sam had accidentally come upon Merry and Pippin so many months ago in Farmer Maggot's fields. Their simplistic faith and unwavering loyalty heartened him.

Merry squeezed his fingers. "Come now, and take some food. The others have been worried about you."

Frodo did not know if he had the strength to face them. Before his sickness and delirium had dulled the pain of their companionship. Now an endless road of suffering and depression loomed before him, and for the first time he doubted he had the will left to travel it. He banished these thoughts, though, for despair would do him no good now.

Shoving the warm blankets aside, he swung his legs gingerly from the bed. The stone was hard, cold, and strong to the touch, and he wriggled his toes. Then he stood, willing his stiff body to obey him. For a moment the run spun sickly and he thought he might fall back into the bed. But Merry gripped his arm to steady him, and he would not face this pain alone. Together they walked from the room.

Outside they descended a dark and dank staircase, torches fastened to the spiraling walls shedding only light enough for them to see each step. Men passed them and cast suspicious glances, which riled Frodo's raw nerves. Merry was steadfast, though, probably accustomed to their distrust and confusion, and led Frodo by the hand deep into the belly of the building. The manor was not overly opulent, but comfortable enough. Rugs warded away the chill of the stone beneath their feet. The cold gray of the morning light did not reach the depths, and fires filled each room they passed with warmth. Finally they reached what seemed to be a guest dining hall. It was a small, sparsely furnished room. A chipped table marked with use and time took up much of the space, stretching from the heavy, double, oaken doors through which they entered to the blackened brick hearth. A hot fire spread orange light.

"Frodo!" Pippin shouted jovially, rising quickly from his chair. The Hobbit smiled gaily and jumped to embrace his friend. Frodo winced as his aching body was wrung in Pippin's tight grasp, but smiled and patted the other warmly. "So good to see you well!"

Merry pulled his cousin from Frodo. "Pippin's missed you, you see!" he said, laughing.

"And I as well, Master Baggins!" Frodo turned at the unmistakable deep, rumbling tone. Gimli rose gracefully from his own seat, grinning widely. "Come, have a scrap of luncheon! These men have a strange palate indeed, but the stew is not bad with a bit of ale!"

Frodo felt color burn into his pale cheeks. "You have already eaten," he said simply, noting the dirty plates and utensils strewn about the table. His stomach still felt a little queasy, though the meal smelled delicious. "So I shouldn't inconvenience you."

Gimli gave a genial laugh. "You have a great heart that inconveniences you more than it does us. Sit and eat. There is little else to do in this dungeon!"

Tenderly Frodo sat beside the Dwarf. Pippin resumed a station across from them with Merry, the latter of which went about ladling the thick, meaty stew into an earthen bowl. This he offered to Frodo with a slice of white bread. Gimli took an empty mug and poured frothy brew into it before setting it before the Hobbit.

Then they sat in silence. Frodo ate slowly, careful to not upset his painfully churning stomach. The stew tasted wonderful, although Gimli's statement about the spices within it was true enough. The ale did compliment its flavor in a unique way, combining the sweetness of the sauce with the sour tang of the drink. Merry nibbled upon a piece of bread, his eyes distant and introspective. Pippin leaned back in his chair, balancing precariously upon its hind legs, as he looked to the fire. Gimli's face had shed its previous delight, now assuming a dark expression of impatient and frustrated anger. He puffed on his pipe, the mass of rusty hair and beard framing his firm face. Frodo shamefully lowered his head for the Dwarf's sorrowful anger, idly stirring the stew around with his fork. His appetite suddenly fled him.

Merry finally spoke. "Where has Strider gone?"

Gimli grunted, sending a plume of sweet pipe smoke to the darkened ceiling. "To speak to that arrogant rider again, I suppose. 'I hold the king's ear. ' Bah! We have been kept prisoner by these men for days and have yet to meet this supposed king." His eyes glowed in the fire. "I fear we are being deceived. The spies of Saruman are cunning and widespread!"

No one responded to Gimli's assertions, for the Dwarf had voiced a concern common to them all. The Riders of Rohan were little more than a blurry memory to Frodo, but anxiety bubbled through him. Aragorn had followed the Orc army to Isengard with such a panicked fury that floundering now seemed out of character. Why would he allow them to be detained? Had their cause proved fruitless? He swallowed the lump in his throat and battled against fresh tears in his eyes.

The doors behind them suddenly opened, and Aragorn stepped through. His face and hands, once covered in grime and dirt, were clean and strong. At seeing Frodo, the man smiled. "My friend, you are well once more!" he declared, stepping forward. Frodo felt his control over his emotions waver as he stumbled from his chair and threw himself into Aragorn's arms. The son of Arathorn smelled of pipe smoke, horses, and the woods. Aragorn embraced him tightly and chuckled. "Your strength has returned!"

Frodo pulled away and grinned weakly. "Only thanks to you," he said quietly.

Aragorn ruffled the curly mop of his hair affectionately before standing. He turned to the rest of the group. In that moment, he seemed tired, his eyes outlined in darkness, his form almost bent in aggravated weariness. "Still we must wait," he declared forlornly, all eyes of the room upon him.

Gimli growled, slamming his raised mug upon the table with a loud bang that resounded off the walls and caused the Hobbits to wince. "Aragorn, this is a vile mistreatment! Simply tell them of your blood, and they'll surely release us to our own business!"

Frodo returned to his former position as Aragorn sat elegantly at the head of the table. The ranger leaned forward, bracing his elbows upon the surface and clasping his hands before his bearded chin. "I wish it was so simple, son of Glóin, but the state of Rohan does not lend itself to trust, and divulging such information might create a volatile situation that we cannot easily escape."

"Do you think they're allied with Isengard?" Pippin asked incredulously.

Shaking his head, Aragorn explained further. "I doubt that. A tension permeates this manor and its soldiers. Although I cannot be sure, I gather a great deal of Théoden's army has ridden west, possibly in pursuit of the Orcs. A great choice faces Rohan's liege, one he cannot make likely. To openly oppose Isengard could be disastrous for the people of this nation. Saruman abuses the lands of Rohan, yet if it rises against him, he will surely punish it. Rather than make this choice, Théoden is content to dawdle." The heir of Isildur sighed. "Until this situation reveals its course, I will not have at Rohan's disposal such potentially damaging information."

Merry sank deep into his chair as he regarded his leader. "What are we to do then?" he inquired.

After a moment, Aragorn sighed. "Bide our time, I suppose. We are safe enough here." Gimli sighed in anger and frustration. The ranger glanced at his companion sympathetically. "Believe that I favor this action no more than you, Master Dwarf, but there is naught else we can do."

They were silent then, each staring darkly into their own thoughts. Food was forgotten, wine and pipe ignored, and a black depression threatened once more. Frodo closed his eyes and felt the exhaustion return. No amount of sleep, he feared, would ever cure him of it. So much was unknown. How could they be expected to choose the right course of action in this confusing maze of uncertainty? His yearning for Gandalf's guidance then became a keening wail. He had felt lost after his old friend had disappeared into the shadows of Moria, but at least then their goals had still been painfully clear. Now, without the Ring and splintered, where should they turn? Was there even any more to be done? If the Ring had reached Isengard, surely the black future revealed to him in Galadriel's mirror would be inevitable. He felt plagued by indecision, and he wished beyond all hope that this plight would simply end his suffering rather than continue to needlessly plague him.

He thought of Sam. Sam never pitied himself or wavered when the situation grew unfathomably dark. For his friend, matters remained ever clear and simple. Gray did not appear between right and wrong, or between good and evil. Defeat or resignation Sam did not consider. Frodo felt ashamed of his own doubt.

There came a rapping at the door. Before any of them could rise, the heavy oak slabs were pushed open. In the portal appeared a soldier, clad in dirty mail. "Strider, Prince Éomer summons you immediately."

Aragorn stood and narrowed his eyes doubtfully. "In what regard?"

"I know not," spoke the man sharply, "only that a few minutes past a strange blond Elf came into our Lord's courtyard asking if you were among the men of Rohan."

_A strange blond Elf! _Frodo's heart leapt into his throat in excitement, and he stood suddenly. The unspoken hope mirrored in the others, and Merry and Pippin gasped as they too rose. Gimli was away from the table before his companions could think to move themselves. The soldier's face was angry, and he barred their exit. The Dwarf growled. "This invite was extended to no other, save Strider!"

"Step aside, you fiend! This concerns more than this man alone!" Gimli shouted back, his eyes burning with anger and profound hope. He would clearly not be deterred by any force these men might wield against him.

Aragorn smiled regretfully at the messenger, stepping past Frodo to clasp the roused Dwarf on the shoulder. His grip was a bit restraining. "Forgive my colleague here, sir. You must understand. One of our lost companions was a blond Elf with bright eyes, garbed as an archer. Might this visitor match that description?" The ranger was unable to completely hide the wistful dream in his voice.

Frodo turned his wide eyes to the soldier, his gaze boring into the stocky man. For his own part, their messenger seemed a bit unnerved by the group's yearning stares. "This I know not as well, for I did not see this Elf." He seemed to be considering, glancing about the group suspiciously and making quite a show of his hesitation. Gimli grumbled lowly. Finally, the man spoke again. "If that is the case, I see no error in permitting the others. Keep your Dwarves in check, and they may accompany you. Make haste now, for the prince is called to duty elsewhere."

So taken with anxious wishes, even Gimli failed to bristle at the man's ignorance of the differences between Hobbit and Dwarf, and they bounced after him. The walls, festooned with tapestries, were a blur to Frodo as he followed the group, lingering beside Aragorn. Passing men were ignored as he looked upon the ranger. The man's dark eyes were alive with an energy that had longed seemed lost in grief. Frodo dared to hope. His heart pulsed and he shared a grin with Merry and Pippin, who were silently cheerful, their steps buoyant.

"The prince will join you shortly," said the soldier. When they entered the chamber to which he had led them, however, their hopes crashed with a dreadful bang of the closing door behind them. There indeed stood a blond Elf, but his stature was taller than that of Legolas. His posture was a tad proud, his hair light upon his shoulders and his brow high. He was clad in mellow greens. Frodo recognized him immediately.

"Haldir," Aragorn announced in disbelief, his brow furrowed in confusion. He shook his head, obviously stupefied at the appearance of the archer of Lórien.

The Elf's keen eyes pierced them as they scanned the group. His long face was stern and serious. "It is true, I see," he stated after a moment, his tone despondent. "You have failed and broken." The scrutinizing gaze fell to Frodo. Under his harsh inspection, the Hobbit winced inwardly and bowed his head in sudden shame. Merry and Pippin came closer to him protectively, their own stares leveled at the strange Elf.

Gimli raged, stepping forward and glaring at the other, obviously both vexed by Haldir's words and disappointed that the visitor was not their missing friend. "Hold your tongue, Elf!" he snarled. "You may be kin to Legolas, but you hold none of his grace or eloquence! Feign nobility if you wish, but you are not welcomed here!"

"Think well on your words, Dwarf, for I bring a warning from the Golden Wood, from the wisdom of Lady Galadriel herself," Haldir announced smartly, his glare severe.

"Her words are well received," Gimli countered, "for she is a creature of great valor and beauty. You are hardly worthy of bearing her message."

Haldir's eyes narrowed dangerously, but before the tense situation could escalate further, Aragorn stepped between the conflicting parties. "Please. Stay your anger, friend Gimli, and let us hear what Haldir wishes to say." The ranger then turned to the tall Elf, his face tight with distrust and urgency. "Quickly now, before the men of Rohan return."

Haldir released a slow breath and turned his gaze from the fuming Dwarf. Frodo watched him intently. "The Lady Galadriel has received a premonition. She has sent me to both instruct you in your actions and aid you as you need."

"What has she seen?" Aragorn asked, clearly exasperated.

"Men turning upon Elves. She has witnessed the deceit of the son of Denethor. This we cannot remedy, but the course of events from henceforth shall be of our making. Where is the One Ring?" he asked quickly.

Frodo was overwhelmed by the words, and his thoughts were a blur. Numbly he watched Aragorn's eyes grow tight. The ranger stepped closer to the Elf, and the conversation grew hushed. "I know not," he declared after a moment, his eyes darting. The shame in his tone ached in Frodo's ears. "We can be sure that Boromir stole it from Frodo during the skirmish, but nothing else is evident. We were tracking the Orc army when the Riders of Rohan intercepted us." Desperation lined his next words. "Perhaps the Lady Galadriel saw its location in her visions as well?"

Haldir shook his head, sending the hopes of the others plummeting. "Of this she spoke naught to me," declared the Elf lowly. It discouraged Frodo to see him nervous and worried. It seemed so utterly impossible yet somehow sensible, as if this was only another chapter added to a growing, weird nightmare. Galadriel had known of their plight. She had warned him, after all, and he had still allowed this to happen! Tears escaped his eyes, rolling down his pale cheeks, and he looked away. Was this foul outlook that had come to her his fault? Even more, could she now direct them in somehow preventing it?

Then the Elf spoke once more, and his words brought a weak ray of hope into the dark places of his mourning heart. "Still I must believe the Ring has not yet fallen into evil. If it had, surely she would have told me!"

"She would know such a thing?" inquired Pippin skeptically.

Haldir turned hard eyes to him. "She knows all things, for she too has borne a Ring of Power, and through that she is forever connected to the fiery Eye."

Aragorn grew quiet. Frodo observed him as he stood, tense with this information that had come to him. In his own heart a great storm of anxiety and worry swirled. Before he realized it, he voiced his relentless concerns. "What of Sam? Did she learn of him?"

The Elf archer seemed torn. Reluctantly he answered. "That as well she did not say."

Frodo felt his heart grow cold and his young face fell in dejection. In hindsight he did not know why he had bothered to hope. It was surely folly to harbor such futile feelings! Yet in this he was not alone. "And of Legolas?" asked Aragorn.

Haldir hesitated. This more than any other sign indicated that there indeed was information to reveal. Frodo watched the Elf expectantly, his foolish heart once again pumping silly hopes throughout his small and beaten form. "His fate cannot concern you," Haldir finally declared, his narrow face stanch and dark.

Gimli reared and snapped, "You wicked creature! If there is news to be had then come, let us have it! In this you must be honest, for my heart wracks in toil for our lost friend!"

Turning his gaze back to Haldir, Frodo held his breath. "The Lady of the Wood spoke little of this matter, saying only that he had been taken by the enemy. I know nothing else," Haldir said. "If they have not killed him, they keep him for sport. There is little we can do for him now." The dark veil of despair again descended upon the group. Pippin and Merry glanced sadly at one another before looking to Frodo. A great pit of guilt and shame bubbled inside the young Hobbit. Their weak condoling eyes did little to assuage his pain. "Have some faith," Haldir spoke at last, "for the wise Galadriel sent my brother, Rúmil, riding north to Mirkwood. King Thranduil will surely quickly send aid for his son."

Aragorn did not look terribly relieved by Haldir's words, his eyes dark with sorrow and malice. "The Orc army has already reached Isengard. Whatever forces he might dispatch will be insufficient to contend with Saruman's forces!" he declared hotly. "We must go to him!"

"As I said, son of Arathorn, this cannot concern you!"

The ranger's eyes burned. "You cannot expect me to turn my back on Legolas!"

Haldir's own gaze was piercing. "I expect you to show some logic here. Your friendship with him does grieve me, but the fate of Middle Earth rests upon you now. The One Ring is beyond our grasp! Whether it has come to evil or good, I cannot say, yet dwelling upon mistakes of the past will do nothing to remedy the present predicament!" Aragorn clenched his jaw and stepped closer to the Elf. Frodo had rarely seen him so angered. Haldir dropped his tone to a harsh whisper. "You are the king of men, the heir of Isildur. From this you cannot shy. The very fate of us all depends upon you." The sharp bite of his condescending tone softened. "Legolas surely would not fault you."

For a moment, it was still. Time hung upon them, heavy with the profundity of the choice laid before them. The air was tight and suffocating. Frodo felt he could hardly breathe, what he had heard and seen suddenly surreal and unbelievable. How one strange twist of events had changed the course of things to come! The burden of the survival of the people of Middle Earth was no longer his to bear. This revelation felt strange. So often since leaving the Shire many months back he had wished to be rid of the Ring. Now that this desire had finally been granted, he felt exhausted. No longer was he a Ringbearer. Where his guilt had before disturbed him, the relief now offered him a sweet taste of freedom.

Aragorn sighed slowly and lowered his eyes. "What must I do?" he asked quietly.

Haldir's response was strong and confident. "It is time for you to take upon yourself the kingship of men. You must travel to Minas Tirith and secure the allegiance of your people. The Lady Galadriel spoke not of what forces may oppose us, but I do not doubt that the corrupted Boromir will contend with you for their loyalty. You must triumph. There is no other option."

All were silent. Aragorn stood still, tall and proud, yet hesitant. Frodo regarded him with compassionate eyes. He knew of the duty Aragorn's blood placed upon him. Before it had never really occurred to him that this responsibility would one day catch up with the swift feet of the ranger. Frodo understood little of the politics of men, but it was clear that the race was divided and leaderless. Uniting them under one rule would be a difficult task to say the least, and to expect this of Aragorn in such dire times made the impossible job that much more incredible. Yet the ranger did not waver. An elegant regality that not often dignified the man now proudly sang in his form. "If this is the only choice, then I will see it done. I trust the Lady Galadriel's wisdom. She would not lead us astray." A choice had been made.

Haldir nodded firmly. "And I will aid you. In Legolas' stead, I will protect you."

There was a low grumble. Gimli's ruddy face was taut in anger and sorrow. "You will not replace him," declared the Dwarf, "but I will bear my axe beside you as I did him."

Then came the creak of the door, and Éomer stepped inside the room. The blond man looked a bit winded and certainly troubled. Frodo watched as he forced a smile to a pale, distraught face. "Ah! I see you have found the visitor, Strider. Is this your lost comrade?" he asked.

"Nay," Aragorn responded, coming to stand before the Hobbits, "but a welcomed ally nonetheless."

"Good to hear, but I am distressed, for still you must remain here. Our forces have splintered, and rumors that the black threat from Isengard marches toward our manor are well-founded indeed. Our scouts and Riders have lost contact with Lord Erkenbrand's troops." The man sighed, waves of weariness emanating from his form. "We must prepare for war, and though this greatly inconveniences you, I cannot bother my king with your request at this time."

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. "Bear this new message to your liege at once, Éomer, son of Éomund: Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and the Elessar, demands an audience."

The man visibly blanched, his face growing as pale as his abundant hair. His eyes grew wide and unbelieving. "This you cannot be!" he stuttered in disbelief.

"This I am, and I bid you to make haste," Aragorn ordered. His voice was tight and unforgiving.

"Sir, why did you not announce yourself when we met? Never would I have detained you!" Éomer stammered, clearly both embarrassed and unnerved. His face burned brightly.

"Then secrecy benefited me. Now the truth is necessary. If what you say is so, then this nation must have the leadership of your king. His indecision will be his downfall, and I will not stand idly by and allow that to occur."

Éomer was silent with surprise, left wordless and confused. After a short while he nodded, as if suddenly breaking from his paralyzed state. "Come, then. The King Théoden, though wise and strong, is not a trusting man. You others must stay behind."

Gimli opened his mouth to object, but a quick, hard look from Aragorn silenced him. "Let us go." Aragorn turned to his companions. Frodo met his gaze. "I will not be long." The ranger offered him a gentle grin, and in that instance the cold commander faded, leaving the Aragorn of old who was a tender protector and a strong advisor.

Merry and Pippin watched dumbfounded as the man turned and followed Éomer from the chamber. When the door had thudded safely shut, Pippin scratched his head. "What just happened?" he asked, his voice perplexed.

"Use your head, Pippin! There's a war coming!" Merry declared, whapping his cousin upside the head.

"A war?" asked Pippin, now rubbing where he had been struck. "Well, is that good?"

Frodo managed a weak smile. "I doubt it, you fool," Merry retorted.

Haldir cast them a harsh glare, which effectively terminated their banter. Gimli's stout form was taut in anticipation, his eyes afire, his limbs tense. Even Merry and Pippin, now silent, were determined, jaws set in acceptance of this new course, eyes vehement.

As Frodo looked upon their group, he felt his heart go out to each. For now, at least, he felt reassured, even given the harsh days ahead of them. Aragorn had again found his path. He would protect them with renewed valor. Haldir would lead them in this new journey, guided by his keen senses and the wisdom of Galadriel. And Gimli's axe would soon taste the revenge he so sorely desired. Yet, even in this affection and confidence Frodo felt for them all, he could not stifle the sadness in his heart.

For in a short time he would be leaving them for a quest of his own.

* * *

><p>Night came upon Rohan, but the kingdom did not sleep. Not long after supper, Théoden had emerged from his chamber, this being the first occasion in many weeks that he descended to speak to his people. He had announced the intention of war and bade his subjects to prepare. The women and children were to make for the safety of the hills, while the men readied themselves for battle. This proclamation the King of the Mark made after much discussion and debate, and Aragorn had come to understand the power of bad advice, for the king's chief counselor, Gríma, known to most as Wormtongue, was a slick one indeed, weaseling his objections into the conversation with false votes of loyalty and oily convictions. Wormtongue's clever stasis over the king of Rohan had not held in the face of Aragorn's arguments, though, and the king had conceded to action. Moreover, he had left the care of the nation to his sister's daughter, Éowyn, so he himself could ride into battle with his men.<p>

It was as if new energy had been borne into the people. The indecision and hesitation had faded without trace, leaving an air of urgency that permeated every citizen of Rohan. Aragorn watched the people scurry, rushing about tasks with fearful fervor. Horses, great mares and stallions of powerful stature and gait, were led from the stables by squires. Weapons were brought from storage and cleaned, and men bustled about the courtyard. There was smoking and drinking, loud, boisterous voices claiming an early victory over their unknown foes. Tomorrow morning, at first light, the army would march west to Helm's Deep, the last known location of the missing battalions.

Aragorn watched the hustle from balcony of the manor. He was tired, but racing thought did not allow him sleep. This evening his mind was full, concerned with a great many worries and fears. His eyes blankly stared upon the men of Rohan as they armed themselves, but he was distant, longing for things past and dreading things that had yet to come.

A critical battle would occur tomorrow, and they must succeed. Aragorn did not know the extent of Saruman's forces, but surmised that they were indeed significant. If the army of Rohan should flounder, disaster would come to them all. Though he was tenacious in mind, his heart was doubtful. He had convinced Théoden of this action, after all. Defeat in the battle tomorrow would mean forfeiting the tenuous trust they had formed. Assuming Galadriel's visions were true, he could not afford to lose Rohan's loyalty. Many years ago, this very moment in which he would have to rise to assume his birthright had seemed a distant concern that troubled him little. In those days he had been content to live peacefully among the Elves, shunning his duty and turning from his rightful path. That selfish ignorance needled him now with shame. He knew little of politics and the ways of court; though Elrond had been a good teacher of such, he had all too easily cast the lessons aside. He would have to learn now to be a leader. Haldir had made it painfully clear that if he did not, ruin would strike Middle Earth. He was not about to let such a foul fate befall them!

He thought of Arwen. His hand came up absently, calloused fingers caressing the shining Evenstar necklace she had given to him the evening prior to the council in Rivendell. What would she say of this predicament? He imagined her bright blue eyes, deeper than the sky at twilight, staring into his own with such intensity that it drew away his breath. She was wise beyond her years and strong beyond her heart. Their meeting so long ago seemed to him a dream, a flight of fancy and wonder that comforted him whenever its memory blessed his troubled soul. Although concerns for the battle on the morrow should have preempted thoughts of her, he could not help but embellish his desires. In his mind's eye, he basked in her beauty. Idly he wondered what made him worthy of her and worthy of the awesome gift she had given him. Arwen had forfeited her immortal life for his sake, and her choice still alarmed and amazed him. More than once he had tried to convince her rethink what she had done, for living in joy for all time hardly seemed the equal of spending a mere mortal's life in his company. But she had been adamant, trading an infinite existence for finite love, and he had graciously accepted what she offered. It hung lightly around his neck always, resting above his heart, and he would never forget what it meant to him.

She would support him, as she always did. Never would she blame him for the horrid weakness of his blood. This was his destiny, and evil held no claim to him. Her silent strength was his pulsing power. He missed her then, and he looked up to the stars. The night was crisp and clear, the clouds that had covered the day blowing to the east. Though much had happened since his last night in Rivendell, they were still the same. He would see her again. He hoped fairer times would embrace their next meeting.

Then his mind turned, ripped from the peace of Arwen's presence, and he worried deeply for Legolas. Haldir's words had brought unimaginable anguish to his heart. He not often concerned himself for his Elvish friend, as many times since they had met had Legolas proven himself an exceptional warrior who was perfectly capable of looking out for himself. It was silly, but Aragorn had often times likened himself to an older brother in their friendship, finding himself mindful for the Elf prince's safety and constantly protective. Legolas had once or twice lightly chided Aragorn for his state of mind, laughingly reminding the ranger that he was well over two thousand years old. Not wishing to damage his friend's pride, only in the privacy of his thoughts did Aragorn chuckle at the irony of the Elf's words. While he was greatly Aragorn's superior in age, Legolas still acted with a child's naiveté at times. He wore his slow maturity upon his face, the exuberant youth plainly betraying his inexperience. Though this brash attitude was frowned upon by elder Elves, it was what, in Aragorn's opinion, made Legolas so endearing.

His heart ached in guilt. Legolas had only recently come of age. His innocence was a precious gift. Much like Arwen, he loved Middle Earth with a fervor that not often showed in contemporary Elvish society. They were a dying breed, the last generation that still clung to this land. Would Legolas still thrive in the forests if he survived what now faced him? Would his innocence be forever destroyed? Aragorn felt fury, and clenched his fists hard upon the stone railing of the balcony. If the Elf did live, his lost purity could never be returned to him. The ranger cursed Boromir for his weakness. The damage that man had done to them all was immeasurable and irreversible! Worse still, he damned himself. The wretched twists of fate! To leave his closest friend in the fires of Saruman's wrath for the sake of this world! He could not in good conscience go after Legolas, not when the fate of so many more rested upon his shoulders. Thus his heart would be left to tear itself to bloody pieces in rage and grief.

A shadow passed behind him. So caught in his dark contemplation, he nearly missed it. Breaking from his reverie, he turned quickly and stepped forward. Aragorn glanced down the poorly lit hall. The stairs at the far end descended into the courtyard. There the small, hooded figure descended on nimble feet. The ranger opened his mouth to shout to creature, but he was not fast enough, for the suspicious shadow was already gone from his sight. Spurring into action, the ranger followed.

At the door he caught his game, reaching forward and grasping the fleeing creature's arm. In the weak torchlight he noticed the Elvish cloak, and the familiar features. "Frodo?" he questioned tentatively, his brow furrowed in confusion. He released his tight grip, and the small being turned. Indeed it was his friend Hobbit. "What are you doing?"

Frodo's eyes glinted with determination. "Don't stop me, Aragorn. Please," he implored softly.

The ranger's quick eyes scanned the small creature. Upon his back were a few bags stuffed with food and provisions. The Hobbit had dressed warmly, clad in a thick wool tunic and dark cotton breaches. The concealing cloak that blended so well with shadow was wrapped tightly about him. Sting, resting idly in her sheath, hung from his side. Quickly a conclusion came to Aragorn's mind. "You mean to leave," he stated simply, almost numbly. This he had not expected.

Wide blue eyes, so innocent and pure, met his own. "I'm no use to you anymore, though I wish I was. I'm not handy enough with a blade to be any good in battle. I don't know anything about the court of men." The Hobbit gave a regretful smile. "So you see, I might as well be out of your hair."

Astounded, Aragorn dropped to one knee before Frodo. "Frodo…" The words simply would not come.

"I have to find Sam," declared Frodo resolutely. Aragorn said nothing, amazed at the newfound purpose glowing in the Hobbit's eyes. "Without the Ring, I'm nothing remarkable. But I'm still his friend."

A slow understanding came to Aragorn. Though he disliked the thought of this lone but brave creature traveling in the dangerous wilds about them, he could not find it within himself to object. They were quiet, sharing a silent appreciation and sympathy. Bonds woven tight by toil would always remain. Then the ranger took the Hobbit's small hands, resigning himself to the other's decision. "Be safe, Frodo. I know you will find him."

Frodo returned his affectionate squeeze and then embraced him warmly. "I will. Please look after Merry and Pippin. They will not understand," he said, his voice muffled by Aragorn's shoulder. "Thank you for everything."

Then they split, and Frodo walked rapidly away, as if lingering would heighten the pain of separation. Aragorn watched him, his eyes tracing the Hobbit's small outline as he faded into the throng of working men unnoticed. The darkness covered Frodo, and then he was gone.

The ranger released a slow breath. "Until we meet again, Frodo Baggins." Then he turned and headed for his room, exhaustion bidding him to bed. Paths split, roads appeared. He wondered where his own might lead him.


	8. Dawn and Dusk

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER EIGHT: DAWN AND DUSK**

Dawn came to the sky, spilling light over the land, but Boromir was lost to himself and to the world. He walked absently, his feet taking him somewhere not of his conscious direction, but he found he could not care. His fate had become unimportant to him through a sickness of guilt, despair, and anger. The forest was thick, and he had long since lost interest in his path. Vaguely he realized he was heading east, away from Isengard, and was treading upon the boundaries of Fangorn. It should have meant something to him, this road he was restlessly traveling. Something inside drove him. When he took leave of his depression to contemplate, he knew why he was retracing the steps he had previously made in greed. He was searching for the Fellowship. If he could find them, somehow he knew he could make amends. It seemed so simple.

Yet he harbored cold doubts that would not be warded away by the golden sunlight falling upon him. In a daze he had run from Isengard, crushing flower, grass, and leaf under the thunder of his heavy feet. The memory of Legolas' cold glare and the bite of his last venomous words stung him still, and bitter tears rolled down dirty cheeks like rain as he trudged. Feeling the shame repeatedly was his penance, and no matter how he fought to ignore the pain that stabbed him inside, his conscience would not allow his escape. The only relief came from shallow promises. He would not rest until he found his friends. He did not know how he would manage, but he would convince Aragorn to trust him again. He felt a vile wretch when he remembered the shattered looks of betrayal upon the Hobbits' faces, especially Merry and Pippin. Now he prayed with every ounce of his weakened soul that they were safe. One way or another, he would win back their friendship, even if he was undeserving of it.

Moreover, he knew not the means by which he would find the strength to face Frodo again when he still could not even admit to himself that what he had done had not been the fault of any other. Sadly his own thoughts were little solace, but as he marched alone they were his only companionship. Desperately he wondered what was to become of him. No longer fit to be a steward or a king, no more worthy to even be a man, he was but a ghoul, a pitiful creature of sorrow and spite, both hating and loving the Ring, and through that hating and loving himself. He thought of Gollum, and was unable to deny his similarity to the sad creature no matter how the idea turned his stomach. It was like a poison, this desire for the Ring, that even now clouded his mind and sped his heart. Quite often he thought he might collapse and turn back to the call of evil for the sake of his sanity. Only the painful reminder of Legolas' soft tears as he had been pulled into Isengard kept him in line. Only the laughter he had once shared wrestling with Merry and Pippin stayed the madness. These things he kept close to his heart, a sword and shield of honor and light against the despicable darkness gurgling like swamp mud inside him and forever encroaching upon his spirit.

He had long lost track of the days that had passed, but that was to be expected, he supposed. This morning was not unlike any other, save for the parting of the gray cloak of the clouds to allow the sun to shine. For a long time he had lingered in a daze of agony and hurt, sobbing wretchedly in a huddle mass outside the destruction surrounding Isengard. When he had finally regained strength enough to travel, his feet had led him backwards along the tracks the army of Uruk-hai had made. Though his mind faltered and moaned, his feet seemed sure. From this he would not diverge. Demon now, he was once a proud man. For the dignity of his father and his race, he would not shun from facing the others!

Stopping then, he leaned against a tree and took a breath. The forest was gratefully thinning, the trees fading into the rolling grasslands of Rohan. The rays from the sun came down, warm and clean, and he basked in them, looking up the clear skies. A cool wisp of wind brushed past him, and with it he gladly went, swept into memory. He thought of the White City and its great tower. Oh, for the many mornings he had stood below, wondrously gazing upon it! It was a beautiful thing lit golden and pearl by the dawn, proud and ancient. Never did it waver, this tower of men. Never did it sway. And when the fresh wind came, it caressed heart and flag alike. It was strength for the weak, redemption for the disgraced. Hope for the fallen. A conversation not long passed filled his head with such vividness he heard it anew. _"My father is a noble man, but his rule is failing. And now our people lose faith. He looks to me to make things right, and I would do it. I would see the glory of Gondor restored. Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like a spike of burned silver, its banners caught high on the morning breeze? Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?"_

He looked away in bitterness. Such a glorious vision was no longer appropriate for him. He wondered what his wise father would think of his past actions, but he could not say, nor did he want to, for the very idea of his father's scorn injured him. He had taken the Ring with the best intentions, but it had turned into the most crazy of corruptions. What he would not give to undo his vile deeds! He imagined Faramir then, the other son of Denethor, and hoped his brother would protect Gondor now when he could not. He knew he had failed them both. Sadly he wondered if ever again the beauty of Minas Tirith would greet his weary gaze.

Darkly his thoughts tuned to Aragorn. A great maelstrom of ambiguous emotion swirled within him, shaking him to his core. He had grown to respect the ranger, though for abandoning his blood for the sake of selfish dreams Boromir would never forgive him. But surely during the great trials they had faced together he had grown to accept the heir of Isildur. At Lórien, the spite and jealousy of his heart had settled, and words of brotherly affection had found their way from his lips. _"One day our paths will lead us there and the tower guard shall take up the call, for the Lords of Gondor have returned!"_ He had meant this when he had said it, feeling nothing but fierce loyalty and love for Aragorn. Now he did not know how he considered the ranger. The noble heir surely would not share again his heart with him! Boromir could not deny his jealousy; so simply had Aragorn claimed the title that he himself had long sought. And this the ranger did not even desire!

Boromir clenched his fists in anger and began to walk once more, his steps long and powerful. The contention between the would-be king and the steward of Gondor had long been deep. At the council of Elrond they had argued, and Legolas had been quick to defend Aragorn. It angered Boromir that the Elf held the weak ranger in such high regard, when he himself could barely hope to grace the young prince's esteems. Legolas and Aragorn had such a quiet but fierce loyalty to each other that it angered Boromir, for he could not help but envy them. During the Fellowship's trials and travels, the archer and the ranger held an unquestionable confidence that was forbidden to others, and Boromir did not like being a third wheel. To Gimli it mattered not, for Dwarves were tough, solitary creatures that openly cared little for the relationships of others. But the son of Denethor had been covetous and resentful of their bond. Sadly, even though he wished deeply to deny the truth, he knew that he would never now gain the acceptance he had sought before.

He would have to try, though.

As he walked, he drew once forgotten _lembas_ from the small packet at his belt and munched. The pure taste felt wrong upon his tongue, as though he was too tainted to enjoy them as he once had. The flavor reminded him of Lórien and inevitably of Rivendell. So long ago it was, but the Ring's first sight to him was still starkly vibrant. He had doubted before Elrond's council that it truly had existed, for its existence was so deeply lodged in lore and tightly wrapped in doubt. True enough, though, it did appear, placed upon a pedestal of stone in the center of the courtyard for all to see, glimmering in the sunlight arrogantly, as if professing its remarkable and powerful being. Instantly he had fallen in love with its elegant, gold curves. It seemed a tiny thing, a precious thing, an innocent thing. He had not seen this thought for folly then, and he still wondered if it really was so silly to be enamored by its glowing intimacy and promises. To him it was a Ring of Power, but only power and nothing more. Power could not be evil of itself; if a heart wielded it for malevolent intentions, it become malevolent, and if a heart wielded it for benevolent ambitions, good was the result. Power was the ability to fight, the ability to change, and such a force could never be blindly wicked.

He knew this to be a naïve falsehood. The Ring had driven him to evil, and he had sought to do right with it. But this was the only means to rationalize what he had done, and he did not have the strength to denounce it.

These were his darks thoughts as he walked, and they raced about his mind, slamming to and fro inside his skull like caged beasts, driving him mad. For days they had plagued him, and for days still they would persist. He would never be rid of the dark stain upon his soul.

Boromir came to a wide, flat land and he stopped upon a hill overlooking it, surprised at what he saw. In this his fears and guilt fled him, leaving attention free to concentrate on his senses. There before him was an army of men, glistening in dented and damaged mail, bearing broken and chipped swords and shields. Some were mounted upon weary steeds. Many were wounded, lagging and walking with a limp. They appeared beaten and disheartened, lethargically marching across the trampled fields to the east.

He watched dumbfounded a moment when a banner flapped conspicuously in the morning sun. The crest he recognized immediately as that of the kingdom of Rohan. Long had these horse-breeders been friends of the House of Denethor. Yet he was perplexed. The army appeared thin now, but undoubtedly it had been great before. The only conclusion that seemed logical was that they had faced Saruman's Uruk-hai. Could that have happened without his noticing as he had wandered? Surely it was possible, for he had spent much time dazed and deep in thought. He winced as he beheld them. Many had clearly died.

He made sense of the situation quickly, observing the men wearily and despondently trudge. If Aragorn had his wits about him, the ranger would have followed the army of Saruman to Isengard. With a force of men this great patrolling the plains, it was unlikely the Fellowship had not come upon them. And if that was the case, then these allies could lead him to his companions. Boromir drew a deep breath to ward away his anguish. Forward he resolutely stepped, descending the hill to meet the soldiers. Now he would again be a man amongst men, and his crimes he would hide.

* * *

><p>King Théoden's forces moved westward. They had left Edoras upon the dawn, and though the march was long and arduous, they were making great distance relatively quickly. Aragorn was unsure whether or not their speed pleased him, for though thoughts of the upcoming fight left him restless, it did not encourage him that they were blindly entering territory close to Isengard, ignorant of what dangers lay in wait.<p>

They traveled silently. A thick air of excitement and fear lay over the men, one not easily punctuated by silly palaver. The enormity of what they faced seemed too powerful. The men were anxious, as it had been many years since they last had a so clearly defined enemy upon which to make war. Even greater was the knowledge that in this battle they must succeed. To make a move against Saruman and then falter would surely lead to the destruction of Rohan. The tension was palpable, nearly tangible upon the gentle breeze and louder than the fall of feet and hoof and the clanking of armor against itself.

Aragorn glanced to Haldir beside him. The archer's keen eyes were trained forever skyward, scanning for threat or foe, his long face tight in concentration. The horse the Riders had given him, a white stallion by the name of Arod, trotted nervously. The animal seemed as agitated as the troops, his steps fidgety. As well he did not seem pleased with those deemed fit to ride him, and no amount of calm words or gentle pets by Haldir could comfort the riled beast. Behind Haldir, his face dark and indignant, sat Gimli. The Dwarf looked uncomfortable; Aragorn supposed the position he had assumed, in which the stout warrior was using all the strength of his legs to maintain his balance while minimally latching upon Haldir for support, would ache the body. In spite of himself the ranger chuckled quietly. He had never met a creature so fiercely proud as Gimli. It had taken the wretched trek through Moria, Gandalf's death, and the Lady Galadriel for the Dwarf to finally accept Legolas as a friend. It seemed such stupidity for the two great races of Dwarves and Elves to so blindly hate one another. Aragorn idly wondered what would have to befall them for Gimli to learn to trust Haldir.

On his other side rode Théoden. The aging king seemed to have regained vigor in the night since they had spoke, and he sat erect and powerful atop his most precious prize, Shadowfax. The horse's aura mimicked that of its master, courageous and leading. Aragorn was relieved and surprised at the king's transformation. Only the night before he was a sloth, content to please himself with wine and wealth. Now once more a guide and commander of men, Théoden appeared resolute, and for that Aragorn was glad. It would do them no good to hesitate now.

Behind him, seated upon a brown pony, were Merry and Pippin. The Hobbits had insisted that they accompany them into battle much to Aragorn's chagrin. He could not abandon them in Edoras, though the thought pleased him. They had as much a right to involve themselves in this struggle as any other. Frodo's sudden departure had troubled them, but Aragorn bade them not to worry. He explained to them that Frodo had appeared adamant, and if nothing else he was brave and dependable. They did not seem entirely heartened by the ranger's reassuring words, but had dropped the matter for more pressing concerns. Aragorn heard them chatter quietly every once in a while, a constant reminder that he would have to protect them.

His own mount, Hasufel, walked tall and proud, his stride great. Never before had he had the occasion to respect a horse as he did this one, for Hasufel was a magnificent animal. His coat could be likened to silk, glistening richly in the morning sun. The horse pulsed with elegant power as he stepped, each muscle flexing in delicate deliberation. Aragorn felt awed by him. He had known the inhabitants of Rohan to be exceptional breeders of horses, but never had he imagined they were so greatly skilled as to create such a glorious beast. Immediately he had grown attached to Hasufel and in the still places of his heart where his worries could not invade he was infinitely grateful for the mount's silent strength.

The dawn wore on to noon, and without rest they continued. The men neither tarried nor complained, as if the newfound leadership of their king demanded a higher level of obedience and resilience. Ahead Éomer sent scouts but they returned without sign or word of the missing troops of Erkenbrand. As time slipped by, hope began to fade and exhaustion crept into weary hearts. Though worry clung to the soldiers, Théoden was steadfast and that gave them strength. Still the tension grew and eyes were darting about with apprehension. A grotesque sense of foreboding clenched them in a vice, and with each empty mile traversed it grew tighter. Something surely awaited them, something dark and vicious. Inevitably they were drawing close to it, and that was infuriating. To walk openly into peril seemed foolish, but pride and duty would not be denied, and closer yet they marched to Isengard.

By the mark of late afternoon, when the sun was just beginning to disappear behind a wall of growing gray clouds, they reached Helm's Deep. It was a ravine of sorts, named for a hero of legend, Helm Hammerband, who had once defended it. Securely nestled in the gorge was Hornburg, the ancient, dilapidated fort wearied by time and weather. Whatever awe struck Aragorn at beholding such a famous place of the past was dwarfed by disgust and then fear, for as the army came to stop upon a precipice overlooking the site, a grisly scene of battle and death spread out before them.

Éomer blanched visibly as the wind picked up, blowing the stench of rotting flesh and burning hair to them. Strewn about the blackened fields were corpses, littered carelessly. Arrows, broken and split, haphazardly covered the ground, some sticking sickly from the necks and chests of the dead. Orc and man alike slept in a final, ugly rest; on the battlefield good and evil became much the same when laid to ruin. The smell of charred wood was pungent. "This cannot be," moaned Éomer in disbelief.

A great rumor went through the army, which the commanders, so taken with the ghastly destruction, did nothing to quell. Théoden outwardly seemed unfazed by this black sight, but his eyes spoke what his face did not. "A foul passing!" Anger clenched his tone.

Aragorn shook his head sadly. "There was naught you could do," he declared quietly.

Then came a cry and the gallop of horses. All eyes shot to the left as two Riders on swift steeds sped across the blood-soaked field. One, a young man with wide, childish eyes, shouted, his voice carrying on the wind, "Prince Éomer! Prince Éomer, sir! Enemy scouts!"

A cold chill wracked Aragorn, jolting him, and Hasufel reared. "Hold your men, my Lord!" the ranger cried. Théoden turned to him quickly, perplexed and unnerved, but Aragorn was already driving his mount forward. "Haldir!" he cried, bidding the Elf to join him.

Gimli opened his mouth to protest but all that escaped was an irritated curse as the archer spurred Arod into a gallop, tearing down the hill after Aragorn. The ranger did not look back as he thundered towards Hornburg, but he heard the fire of Éomer's orders as he, too, charged across the field. Desperation and panic beat in Aragorn's blood as his quick eyes scanned the rushing grasses. Hasufel's hooves struck the earth with a crushing power, yet he ran on light feet, avoiding many a rut and obstacle and flying like the wind across the burnt plain. There, ahead! A small company of Orcs, these lesser than the demons they had faced at Amon Hen, scavenged among the corpses, greedily picking through the bodies undoubtedly for usable arrows or food. The ranger grit his teeth. They could not allow these to escape and spread the word of their approach to the others!

He dropped Hasufel's reigns thoughtlessly, trusting the horse to lead him closer. Quickly his drew his black bow and nocked an arrow. Behind him, the cracking of Arod's feet against the dry ground resounded, and a shot whizzed by him. It met its mark, slamming into the head of a grimy Orc. The creature shrieked and fell. Now, though, its companions became aware of their attackers, lifting their heads from their searching. Another died from Aragorn's own arrow before they could move. Then a squeal of Dark Speech filled the air, and they turned and fled.

Aragorn cursed inwardly and urged Hasufel to run faster. Arrows whizzed by him from Haldir's quick bow, and Arod charged up beside him, snorting. Ahead the company of Orcs split, naturally attempting to distract their attackers. The ranger offered a quick glance to Haldir, but disregarding the outraged cry from Gimli, the Elf had already directed Arod after one of the retreating groups, diverging from Hasufel. Aragorn wasted not a moment more before launching arrow after arrow upon what remained of the Orcs, instinct and years of practice guiding quick hands and eyes. When he ceased his volley, few remained alive, and those that still struggled were slain by the shining sword of Éomer.

Three remained though, and this trio charged across the fields on surprisingly fast legs. They managed to dodge each of Aragorn's arrows, ducking and side-stepping almost intuitively, frustrating the ranger. They had traversed most of the plain, and ahead gray forests beckoned. If these demons should reach the woods, surely he would lose them!

He rode harder. These Orcs were wiry creatures, slick, cunning, and quick to escape. Hasufel drove faster, pounding over the field, as Aragorn depleted his quiver. One arrow struck a fleeing monster in the back, sending him tumbling into the trampled grasses. Two still ran. Angrily the ranger stowed his bow and drew Andúril, the blade gleaming in the sunlight as he raised it overhead. One Orc stumbled and he charged to it, his blade swooping down to cleave its wretched head from its shoulders. But the other ran on, uncaring of the demise of his comrades, sprinting into the woods and disappearing in the throng of trees.

Aragorn bit his lower lip, having neither time to think nor to breathe, as Hasufel charged into the dense forest. And then he stopped, drawing back on the reigns, his careful eyes glancing around rapidly. The few seconds he had taken to kill the other Orc had been costly indeed, for all that met his gaze now was a wall of trunk and leaf. The forest was still. The last enemy was gone.

He cursed softly, narrowing his eyes, and damned himself for allowing this to occur. Hasufel, as if sensing his anger, snorted and stepped back and forth restlessly. The ranger continued to look about, unwilling to truly admit that the last Orc had escaped. Éomer approached from behind, pulling his horse to a stop, winded. The man glanced about the scene. There was an unspoken anger and understanding. "Let us go back, son of Arathorn," the prince declared after a moment.

Aragorn felt a black worry squeeze him tightly. This would undoubtedly complicate things. Casting one last hateful glance, he turned and followed Éomer back to the others.

* * *

><p>The prince and the ranger returned to find Théoden and his men had moved into the dark, dank protection of Hornburg. The King of the Mark was dismayed by Éomer's news. A black tiding indeed! Choices grew slim, and time would not wait. This mistake, though horrid and grievous, could not be undone.<p>

Aragorn folded his arms across his chest. The army had descended to the field and was now milling about idly while its leaders spoke in private. He watched the men from atop the high wall of Hornburg. He sighed, the stench upon the air leaving him sick to his stomach. As much as loathed the choice before him, it seemed the only viable option. "I suggest, my Lord, that if we are to make a stand, we do so here," offered the ranger, turning to meet the gaze of Théoden.

The king seemed dubious. "A great battle was lost here, son of Arathorn," he commented dryly. "It seems as though this land was not kind to Lord Erkenbrand."

Éomer quietly declared, "I conjecture that he is not lost, my liege. My men roughly counted the dead. It is not enough to account for all of the noble lord's forces."

"You suggest that he was forced into retreat, sister-son?" Théoden questioned.

"Perhaps, my Lord," Éomer answered. The prince then turned and gazed sadly over the battlefield. Some of the soldiers were laboring to pile the bodies of the Orcs and burn them, great billows of black, acrid smoke pouring into the sky. "I respectfully submit the fact that the battle that occurred here ended as a stalemate. Our fallen are neither greater nor smaller than theirs. There was likely no clear victor."

Théoden grunted and folded arms across his chest. The breeze picked up his hair, blowing it across his aged and wrinkled face. "Then that is all the more reason why we should not linger in this dungeon," he announced. "It will be a waste to skirmish where the land does not favor us. We do not know the extent of Saruman's power. If it is great, he will corner and swarm us. Trapped here, we will be crushed."

Aragorn winced. The king's words were true enough, and the familiar guilt prickled his heart. "My Lord," he implored, forcing calm and steadiness into his voice, "though Haldir's shot was true, mine missed its mark and word of our position has spread to the enemy. This ground is good. If we can protect our flank, we will hold the high land. They will charge from thence," Aragorn declared, spreading his fingers to the west where the sun was slowly descending, burning the sky, "and be hindered by the wide open field. Though a hundred of Mirkwood's finest archers would greatly benefit us here, our own will be sufficient enough to weaken their charge with a piercing rain of arrows. Those that survive will swiftly meet their end." The ranger glanced below to the grassy grounds where soldiers worked and the horses grazed. "We shall form a line stretching from north to south to guard the flank and rear. Your men are talented, strong, and numerous. This they will be able to hold."

The king mused upon Aragorn's words a moment, rubbing his chin, his eyes distant. "So you say," he finally said, ending a quiet anxiety, "yet I cannot help but fear. You spoke of a great army that felled your Elf comrade. Even if that alone protects Saruman, how can we be sure we have the force to contend with it? Their numbers may dwarf our own, and we will have no reinforcement!"

"Sir," said Aragorn, "this I considered as well. This army of Orcs that Saruman has bred has already clashed with Lord Erkenbrand's troops and suffered losses. It may be much larger than we can face, but this I must doubt, for even Saruman does not wield such a fantastic power as to rejuvenate a tattered army without the passage of many days of healing. If that is so, then no work of own will prevent our destruction!"

They were silent a moment, wrought with the weight of the situation. So much uncertainty faced them all, and pondering produced more questions and few answers. Finally, Haldir, who had silently stood beside Gimli and watched the men debate, took it upon himself to speak. "King Théoden," he began clearly, drawing their attention, "if I may simplify matters. This land we know enough to mount a sturdy defense." The Elf's eyes glinted. "The enemy knows of our presence, and they will attack, and attack hard. I suggest that there are but two options: retreat to Edoras, thus abandoning Erkenbrand, wherever he may be, and effectively postpone this confrontation, or fight here and now at a place we can at least defend."

Aragorn was at that moment extremely grateful for Haldir's plain, albeit a bit arrogant, logic. Éomer glanced between the Elf, the ranger, and the king. "Haldir speaks eloquently and rightly, oh Lord. I would not myself venture to offer an opinion as to which course of action we should take."

"Venture it, sister-son, for I value your insight."

Éomer clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes. "The plan proposed by Aragorn is a good one. It is a far better thing to valiantly face the enemy here where we hold an advantage than to be ambushed."

After Éomer spoke, it became still once more. Aragorn turned and looked to the sunset. The blaring ball of light was bleeding into the sky, and the hours were slipping away much faster than he would have liked. Still, it was not his place to make this decision. Though he was heir to the kingdom of Gondor, the kingdom of Rohan was governed by different men of different mindsets. Thus he waited, outwardly patient, for Théoden to pass judgment upon the alternatives set before him. Inside he was screaming.

Finally, Théoden closed his eyes tiredly and released a slow breath that ruffled his thick facial whiskers. "May it be then that we make our stand here, entrenched in this fort upon Helm's Deep. I pray her old walls can still withstand the blows of many dark arrows." He turned suddenly. "Send word to the troops! Gather all the provisions to be had, and make preparations for battle! We form a line to guard our flank!" One soldier bowed quickly and then jogged away, jumping down the crumbling stairs to spread his lord's wishes. To another, Théoden snapped, "Summon our best archers. They will hold watch here upon this vantage."

Orders were dispatched, and the camp of the Army of the Mark was alive with activity. Hours quickly fled into dusk, and much was done. A stressful air descended upon them all that stank of death and ominous ruin, yet morale would not be crushed. As twilight came and work was completed, eyes turned westward to the line of forest, intently watching the trees for any sign of Orcs. It was a prolonged torture, a torment of the worst kind, and the men anxiously waited for their fate to be revealed to them.

A hushed and tenuous silence had come to them. Atop the wall, where a clear view of the entire battlefield was the advantage, Aragorn stood. Beside him was Haldir, the blond Elf calmly looking to the sky and trees and listening to the wind, having completed the repair of the arrows he had collected from the destruction below. Gimli rested at his other side, adorned in the bright and strong mail and chain of his race. His axe he carried over his shoulder, and the blade shone sharply in the last light of the sun. "How long has it been now, son of Arathorn?" the Dwarf questioned.

Aragorn closed his eyes a moment and tried to settle his riled nerves. This wait did infuriate and alarm him! Then he looked to his companion. "Five or six hours since we came to this place," he announced sadly. "The fall of night will not aid us."

Haldir was eerily relaxed. It seemed strange to Aragorn that he could be so composed, but as he considered it a funny, little thought came to him. Legolas had always been much the same, stately and serene even in the face of the direst of perils. Never in battle did Aragorn see his friend falter. Perhaps he had just grown so accustomed to Legolas' graces that he had unwittingly attributed the facet uniquely to the Elf prince. Elvish endurance and equanimity now served to amaze him anew as he beheld Haldir. "Have patience, Dwarf," Haldir said. "A black omen reeks in the air. They will come."

Gimli grunted hotly. "Hide your fears if you wish, Elf, but it is naught but a façade." Haldir shot the enraged son of Gloón a cold, angry glance, but said nothing more, turning his attention back to the sky.

Merry piped up. "Anybody want something to eat?" he asked, reaching forward and offering a red fruit. He sat beside Pippin, their backs against the cold, stone wall.

The other Hobbit reached up and snatched the prize. Then he took a loud bite. "Quit giving away all the food!" he ordered around a mouthful of sweet flesh. "We haven't got much, you know!" His tone was accusatory.

Merry took it back from his cousin and held it close, as though what he clenched to his breast was more valuable than a simple apple. "Don't be such a hog, Pip! This belongs to everyone, not just you and your bottomless stomach!"

Pippin opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by the wave of Haldir's thin hand and his harsh, commanding glare. "Quiet!" the Elf hissed before returning his attention ahead. His piercing gaze grew sharp and wary, and Aragorn followed his line of sight.

There, hidden by twilight, at the edge of the forest, black shapes moved. At first he could make little of them, shadow blending with form to create ambiguous apparitions. Aragorn strained his eyes, idly envying Haldir for his acute senses. But after a breath or so, the shapes grew numerous, and there was a squeal against the peace of the night. Cold surprise washed over the ranger. They are coming.

"Théoden, my Lord! Éomer! Ready your guard, for they approach!" he hollered into the breeze. In response below came a roar of both relief and excitement. The ranger grew satisfied as the clank of moving armor and the ring of drawing swords sang. Orders went up and down the line of the troops, each repetition of the words growing fainter as it traveled to the edges of the army.

Aragorn turned and drew Andúril. To Merry and Pippin, he ordered soundly, "Stay close to Haldir. If the fortress becomes overrun, flee." Too shaken for once to argue, the Hobbits nodded, their pale faces glowing in the fading light. Haldir had already drawn his bow and stood rigid, his eyes searching for foe at which to aim. Then the ranger nodded to Gimli, who had brandished his large axe, before storming down the stairs to the ground below.

As Aragorn stepped to the grass, the men raised their weapons at the bellowed instructions of their commanders. He pushed to the front of the line where Théoden rode upon Shadowfax, the king's shining blade lifted to the sky. Éomer held his horse still beside his liege. "There are many," he remarked gravely, and Aragorn looked ahead.

Like a horde of black spiders, the Orcs swarmed across the field. Deep drums beat behind them, their thunder growing louder as they approached. The force seemed infinite, and Aragorn felt panic begin to beat with him as endlessly they poured from the protection of the woods. Wave upon wave of attackers screamed across the field, squashing grasses, aggressively screaming their blood lust as if to scare away the men that opposed them. Thousands, it seemed, trampled the plains, each intent on murder, painted upon them all the vicious white hand of Saruman. So many more than he thought possible! He cursed himself for his deceitful logic, for it had become an error, a plight of ill advice!

This they could not face!

For a moment the shock was paralyzing, consuming, and he stood lost in the black of the setting sun. Then Aragorn felt himself again. His skin was tingling. His heart was thundering a painful denial. He clenched Andúril tightly, his palms sweaty and his knuckles white, and his knees felt weak. He had to remind himself to breathe.

Arrows began to whiz overhead, streaking through the darkened sky like lightning slicing through the air. The great shower fell upon the rapidly advancing menace, but it did little, barely thinning the ranks of the foremost lines. Still the shots continued, unyielding in their fortitude. The troops around the ranger howled a battle cry, horses and hands steady. Wills were adamant. This was the path they had chosen, and they could not turn back.

Gimli was tense beside him, rigid with violence and anger, for the moment of his long-awaited revenge had finally come to him. His axe gleamed viciously. In the clamor of approaching battle, he spoke. His words were soft, barely audible, but they shook Aragorn deeply. Out of them the ranger found his strength. "For the bond of our hearts, Legolas, I will not fail."

Then the enemy came upon them, and they charged into the fray.


	9. The Everlasting Night

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER NINE: THE EVERLASTING NIGHT**

The fight was furious.

In the dark of night, foe meshed with friend, and all become shadow in the fields. Though Gimli counted himself an excellent warrior, in the black it was difficult to maintain his sights. All around was a great cacophony of battle, cries of the wounded, the slash of swords through air, the grunts of exertion, the howls of the enemy. The Dwarf struggled to stay focused, though his axe moved quick enough to slay many an Orc. His racing heart was heavy.

The blade of his axe glinted in the moonlight. The sharp edge was covered in gore. Gimli smiled in grim satisfaction. As another round of attackers approached, he let loose a fierce cry and rounded upon them. The rage of the battle pounded through his body and released himself to it, bringing power to his swinging arms and strength to his legs. He slashed downward, catching one grisly Orc across its chest. The axe cut through easily enough, leaving an enormous, bloody laceration in the monster. It shrieked, tipped, and fell. Gimli wasted not a breath, turning to another approaching Orc and dispatching with it as easily as he had the first. His axe sang through the night air, and he danced with it, raw talent and years of practice guiding his feet and hands by instinct. Each slash heartened him. Each kill redeemed him.

Aragorn was not far, the bright blade of Andúril whizzing through the air to cleave the head from the shoulders of another attacker. Gimli jogged closer to the ranger. He did not want to lose Aragorn in the fray; the men of Rohan he did not trust enough to fight solely beside them. All around him the soldiers struggled with the Orcs, slashing frantically, pushing back their assailants with heavy, dented shields, defending themselves with punches and kicks if need be. Gimli lashed out, his axe slamming into the gut of one Orc. He yanked it free, reached down quickly, and lifted the beast's weapon. Clenching the second axe in his other hand, he continued his run towards his comrade.

The ranger was being overwhelmed. Three or four Orcs clawed at him, their vicious weapons slashing like lightning towards the hapless Aragorn. Blade met blade, sending a shower of hot sparks into the air and filling ears with a horrible screech of metal scratching upon metal. Gimli thundered forward, eyes wide with concern, panic fueling his steps. He would not fail another of his friends!

With a howl he hurled the second axe forward. Though shadows made apparitions of air and hid true substance, a satisfying thud answered, and then came a wretched cry. Gimli sped closer, bearing his axe, and let loose a deep battle cry, imploring his father for luck and strength. The axe sailed as though weightless and severed the arm of another Orc. Aragorn kicked the injured attacker to the ground before stabbing another. Though he hid his relief, the Dwarf shook inside. Painful memories flooded through his mind. Legolas' piercing, pained gaze looking to him at the shore of the Anduin when they had abandoned him again tormented the warrior. He shivered and forced his guilt to diminish.

He pressed up to Aragorn in the dark and felt the man sigh softly and shudder. "This does not go well," the ranger murmured quietly.

For every one they felled, another four seemed to appear, snarling hungrily at the thought of carnage. Gimli glanced frantically up and down the line, clenching the shaft of his axe tighter. In the cover of night he could not see whether or not the defenders had failed. If they had, undoubtedly they would be flanked and surrounded. The Dwarf growled and looked ahead as a chorus of guttural cries pierced them. "They come again!" he declared.

The men met the advance courageously, but they were weakening. Overhead came another barrage of arrows. Gimli thought that perhaps over the racket he heard Haldir directing the archers. He prayed their aim was true, for it would be a sad irony to be mistaken for evil in this deep black and slain by the arrow of an ally. The shots met their marks, and Orcs fell. It was still a formidable force that clashed against the line of defense, and Gimli gritted his teeth.

They fought alongside each other, the man and the Dwarf. Their weapons were their instruments of valor and deliverance, seeking to lay upon the enemy the fury of their pain. So much they had lost. So much they suffered. Friends were gone forever, dear companions taken by the shadow that they faced. Bleeding hearts pulsed in wrath and they killed, driven by the need to survive and the want to redeem. Instinct guided Gimli, and he was swept away in a powerful river of memory and anguish. For the pain of his heart, he longed to see Legolas again! The Elf had become such a simple and caring friend. He had found a dear comrade in the most unlikely of people and during a strange time. These foul beasts had taken that treasure from him. He screamed his anger.

For a long time he did not think, moving, fighting, breathing. The battle carried him and he joined with the warrior's spirit, letting it guide his mind and body. He came alive, swinging his axe like never before, his love for the lost Elf powering each mighty blow. But in the back of his mind, where his worries swirled like the dark of the night around him, he knew that the battle was turning in a foul direction. At his feet was a spread of corpses, both Orc and man, a veritable slaughter. The lines of their defense were thinning. The men of Rohan were faltering in the face of the large army of Orcs, for a force of this size they had not anticipated.

Though the noisy chaos of the fight disturbed the tranquility of the starless night, a great silence clenched the heart of Gimli, despair and panic swelling within him. He glanced up at Aragorn. Even in the shadow, he saw the man's fear glisten in his eyes. Surely the ranger knew it as well. Guards were failing. Men were dying by the hundreds. Their forces were waning. Soon they would be flanked, and that would inevitably seal their fates. This was a battle they could not win.

Yet this attack they again repelled, and the remaining Orcs retreated to reform. The Dwarf was breathing loudly, struggling to catch again his wind. Aragorn dropped down to a crouch and scrubbed a hand through his hair in distress. A loud thunder of hooves approached. Gimli smacked a dead Orc away from his knees, sending it hurtling down to the sea of bodies. The Dwarf turned and looked upward.

"Hold your positions!" came Théoden's order from atop Shadowfax. The massive beast reared, pawing the air angrily. The king lifted his sword to the moon, trying obviously to rally the beaten men. "Stand tall and face them! Hold!"

Aragorn saw it first, but in hindsight Gimli supposed he too knew that what was to come was simply a matter of time. Upon the tall horse, even in the shroud of night, the King of the Mark was a clear target. His blade shone like a spike of silver in the moonlight and his mail glowed. The ranger opened his mouth, undoubtedly wishing to usher the king down from his perch. But it was for naught, for at incredible speeds came forth the shot of an enemy archer. The arrow sunk deep into the back of Théoden's neck. It broke through to the other side with a spray of dark blood, the tip protruding from his throat hideously.

It was quiet for an endless eternity. Gimli watched thunderstruck, paralyzed by his shock, as the king sat motionlessly atop Shadowfax. The eyes of army were lifelessly observing in horror and alarm as their king teetered. Then Shadowfax whinnied and reared once more, and the limp body was spilled from his back. The horse then ran away in a wild gallop, disappearing into the night.

Gimli could not think to speak or move, unbelieving. He watched numbly as Aragorn stumbled forward, racing from the wall of Hornburg. Only when Éomer's terrified cry of despair filled the night did his stupor shatter, and his stout legs moved quickly.

At Théoden's side he watched Aragorn drop to his knees. Gimli kicked away irritating Orc corpses, a tempest of fear and anger driving him forward. Éomer approached, upon his steed, his garb bloody. The Rider leapt from the horse, hitting the ground loudly, but he did not stumble. His fear was clear on his white face. Together Éomer and Gimli reached the growing crowd about the fallen king.

Looking down, Gimli beheld a gruesome sight. Théoden's white hair was stained a dark red now, and his once strong face was slack. The expression was one of denial and shock, frozen into his countenance forever by death. Unseeing eyes looked to the dark sky above. There was blood everywhere.

Aragorn withdrew his hands from the king's neck. "He is dead," the ranger stated sadly. Gimli wondered why the man bothered; it was painfully obvious.

Éomer fell to his knees beside his still liege. Tears wet the Rider's dirty cheeks. Yet the prince did not speak, numbly gazing upon Théoden. Aragorn glanced to him. The army had become silent in fear and loss. A great king murdered by the darkness! Death to all that should speak in the face of such a disservice to Middle Earth!

The Orcs were laughing from the other end of the field, and it was an ugly sound.

Gimli bowed his head as Aragorn gently closed the eyelids of Théoden, relieving all of the painful sight of those soulless eyes desperately searching the heavens for absolution. The Dwarf sighed slowly, his soul shaking. He cared not for men in general, as was the mindset of his race. The plight of Gondor and Rohan and their citizens was a trivial concern for the Dwarves, for it was borne of their own greed and stupidity, and much of Middle Earth had suffered for the weakness of men. Since he had become one of the Fellowship, this old prejudice had faded. He had grown to have a deep respect for Aragorn. This he had held for Boromir as well, until the wretched weakling had betrayed them. His fists tightened in his anger. To see another slain over the One Ring enraged him! As a Dwarf, he could not ignore the honor of dying bravely in battle. Théoden had been slain in a cowardly show of disrespect, murdered by a sniper's arrow, and this Gimli would not forgive! The passing of a great man disheartened him.

Time pressed upon them again. Aragorn stood, clenching Andúril. The ranger's face was stone. "Éomer," he said quietly. "Lead your king's men."

The prince did not look up, weeping quietly for their plight. For a long moment, no one had the strength to speak, the air tense and heavy with dreary fear and pain. Then Aragorn snapped, "Éomer, son of Eomund! Do your king honor and command his forces now, before destruction come to it!"

As if fate sought to forsake them, then came again the howl of the enemy and the thunder of their approaching feet. Another charge! Every man grew stiff in fear. Death surely awaited them now!

Wiping his face, Éomer stood stiffly. "What can we do now?" he asked softly, his eyes flaring at Aragorn's sharp tones. "We have lost here!"

"Quickly, then," replied Aragorn, glancing about, "we must move into Hornburg! The fort will protect us!"

"And leave us cornered?" Éomer hissed angrily.

Gimli felt the strength leave him and he frowned. This night would crush them. There would be no escape. He felt ready to resign himself to that fate.

"There is no choice!" announced Aragorn.

Then the prince met the eyes of the ranger. An unspoken understanding grew between them from which Gimli was excluded. The Dwarf watched them, bewildered at their calm stares as the arrows of the enemy poured down around them. Then the endless moment left. Éomer raised his voice to the men. "Into the fort! Make haste to grab the injured! Into the fort!"

The men, or what remained of them, did not need to be told twice. Posts were abandoned, positions left empty, as they ran panicked to the rotting protection of Hornburg. The wounded were carried or coaxed to their feet. The troops raced inside, thundering up the stairs to make room for those behind.

Aragorn sheathed his sword. He grabbed the shoulders of the fallen Théoden. No words were spoken, but none were needed. Éomer lifted his liege's lifeless legs, and together the two men bore the weight of their fallen commander.

Gimli loathed retreating, but there was no other option. They had lost. He raced after the others, glancing as the walls of raging Orcs gained ground upon them. He charged into the old entrance of the fort. Soldiers on either side struggled with heavy doors, pushing upon their old surfaces with grunts of strain. Gimli scrambled to one side and threw his weight into it, his strong arms shaking with exertion as he fought to close the portal. Finally, as the last of the men stumbled inside, the heavy doors slammed shut, sending them all into darkness.

* * *

><p>Pain.<p>

Pain and heat.

And fear.

Agony. Horrible anguish and torturous torment.

_"This will be your existence now. Never again will you know joy. Never again will you feel the coolness of a morning breeze as you run through your forests, or taste the warmth of the sun on your skin. A wretch such as you is fit for darkness!"_

The words hurt like new as they filled his mind, the memory piercing. "No," he moaned through clenched teeth.

_"Why do you resist this? You cannot contend with the will of Sauron. He will triumph, and you will die. This you cannot fight or prevent it. You are a fool to think you can keep the Ring's location hidden from him!"_

"I will not give up." There was the sound of his voice, but in the haze of delirium he was not sure whether or not he spoke his thought. The tone sounded beaten and deflated. Alien.

_"Infant! You are but a child. You may have come of age, but you are blind and naïve and vainly hopeful. Do you hope to escape? You will not! Do you hope to die? This freedom I will not avail you! You cannot possibly hope to fight me! Foolish Elf child."_

Rage stroked fire into his mind. "I am not a child!"

A thousand taunts. Painful jeers. This was his world, and he could ignore it no more than he could the weight of the burning secret he held within. _"Your future, my dear Legolas. Chained to the night. You will not find solace in the sun, for she will never again welcome you into her arms. Your pitiful trees will abandon you, for you will not be fit to sing to them any longer! The black shadow of corruption will cling to you always! A child of the leaves, shunned and despised! Even now you wilt."_

_No!_

He opened his eyes. For a long time, he did nothing but breathe, each loud rush of air echoing between the black walls of his cell. The air was musty and stank of sweat and blood, but he sucked it in desperately. He clawed at his composure, trying to slow the racing of his erratic heart, fighting to will his mind and body into some sort of calm. Despair welled up inside him, threatening his tenuous strength, and tears stung his eyes. _Do not cry,_ came the vehement order of his mind. _Do not! Do not give in!_

He teetered between utter desolation and fleeting tranquility for a moment or so, struggling to ward away the distress. Finally, the vigor of his heart triumphed, and the overwhelming crush of his depression abated. The vile voice, a memory of so many vicious mocks, insults, and threats from the twisted mouth of Saruman, fled into the shadow. Undoubtedly it would assail him if he stupidly should sleep again. He would have to be stronger. The last beating left him too worn and hurt to fight against them, much less the demands of his battered body, and the last memory to flit across his numb mind was the laughter of the Orcs as one slammed him to the floor. He had mercifully lapsed into shadows as his head cracked against the black stone.

The pain came unbidden. Again he felt the blow, his skull wracking in hot agony. He hissed and closed his eyes at the spinning shadows, fighting against the dizziness that clenched his stomach painfully. In the minutes that followed he had to concentrate on breathing, fiery pain lacing his body in great, debilitating shocks. An eternity of hurt languished him, the rush of blood between his ears loud enough to deafen. All he could do was ride it out, struggling simply to survive in its wake as wave after wave battered him.

Then this too passed. He gasped, sweat rolling down his flushed, bloodied face, as the sharp grasp of agony released him. Darkness tempted him, but he would not oblige the call of sleep this time. It was a false security by which he could not afford to be enticed. Surely Saruman was watching his dreams and nightmares, probing into his weakened, unconscious mind for the Ring's whereabouts. Although the thought frightened him, prickling his gooseflesh, he could not rightfully disregard the possibility. He could withstand the pain of the torture, but he could not protect his vulnerable mind. He would rather face the wrath of the Orcs' whips and lusts than subject his mind to Saruman's torment.

Legolas licked dry lips and struggled now to sit up, ignoring the wail of his injuries. After a few moments of exertion, he managed to right himself. The effort had worn him, and tiredly he leaned back into the cold, dry wall of his cell, closing his eyes as once again the abyss of black and stone around him swirled and spun. Once his nausea subsided, he took stock of his wounds, new and old. Bruises and bleeding welts covered his once fair and ivory skin. His broken ribs had not healed, constantly aggravated by the abuse, leaving a massive blue and red mark on his lower chest. His back was numb. It frightened and disgusted him to picture what the skin must look like, crossed and ripped by the sharp snap of whips, torn, inflamed, and bloody. The wounds were serious enough to be comforted by the cool rock they touched, and for the numbing effects of the chilly air Legolas was glad. He could hardly stand to move the fingers of his left hand. In the meager light that streamed through the wrought iron bars of the cage door, he could see how swollen the digits had become. As a punishment for trying to escape days before, Saruman had ordered the bones of his wrist shattered. The limb lay uselessly in his lap, distended and enlarged. The clasp of the manacles tightly binding his hands together before him did little to reduce the agony, the metal digging into the wound and crushing torn muscles and broken bones. It was a cruel fact; he could not make much use even of his good hand, for to do so he would have to move them together, and his left was far too pained. It throbbed excruciatingly in time with his agonized heart.

The Elf prince blinked a few times. This nightmarish cell, devoid of life and light, was suffocating him. Still everything seemed horridly blurry. Despite the pain, he raised his right hand to the side of his head and felt for the extent of the injury. There was slick wetness matted in his thick hair and he winced as his inquisitive and light fingertips probed the extent of the gash. It was quite deep, but the bone had not been harmed. Still it bled profusely and he felt lightheaded. This was the worse yet to come to him.

Breathing slowly was the only way to keep the panic at bay, even though it pained him to concentrate on the swell of his chest. He was so thirsty and hungry; they gave him only enough water to survive. He was too exhausted and disoriented to be still, so he simply let himself shake and shiver in the cold and agony. Low temperatures rarely affected Elves, but he had no doubt that the trauma of his battered body only heightened the discomfort of his naked skin. His leggings were in tatters, torn by the snap of whips and the grasp of restraining claws. His hair, once bright and beautiful, was dark with dirt and his own blood and snarled. The braids he had customarily worn as a symbol of his race and pride had been ripped apart. Sadly he touched his breast. The blood and dirt seemed ingrained into him, tarnishing flawless, smooth skin. Saruman decreed that their prisoner was to have no dignity. He was neither prince nor Elf, but a lowly creature of the shadow. Though the Orcs happily obliged their master's demoralization of their toy, Legolas ignored Saruman's cruel words. He would remain an Elf always, regardless of what they did to him. And as such, he would endure. He would not lose hope, and he would not surrender. He would not betray the others. Saruman could defile and disfigure him, but the wizard could not alter the blood that hotly pulsed through his veins. He was his father's son, and his father was a powerful and wise Elf king. He was kin to the strength of his siblings. He was a confidant and affectionate companion of Arwen. He was friend to Gimli, protector to Frodo, and brother to Aragorn. This the wizard could not change!

As the days had dragged on and the pain grew worse, worry and fear gnawed at this resolution. Legolas swallowed heavily, his face wound tightly into a grimace, as he tipped his head upward. His own weakness made him sick. Death he would have faced, though it greatly terrified him. However, the unsettling prospect of forever remaining a slave to Saruman's cruelty now frightened him more, and he feared the depraved Istar would never allow him to die. Something vicious and sadistic crawled into Saruman's cold, calm, and beady gaze whenever he descended to witness his monsters beat their captive. The cruel glint laughed and danced in the wizard's eyes when the Orcs soiled Legolas with their filthy touches and broke his skin with their evil weapons, spilling blood and tears. Saruman reveled in his screams. Such a base and malicious twist of good and reason! Though it riled Legolas to consider it, he found he could not disregard it. That wicked little grin, that horrible and hungry leer troubled him greatly, for he knew it well. He understood now the way the wicked Ring exerted its evil. This was its sick power, its wretched desire for suffering, its insane lust. The very same look had distorted Boromir's nobility. It had harbored in his eyes when he had ordered the Uruk-hai to beat Legolas. It had glowed in the moonlight when he had murdered the Orc leader. It had sickly sung of its domination when he had savagely ripped apart the Elf's clothes in search of the lost Ring. So many days back, yet the evil would never cease its torment! Would this be his ultimate torture, to spend the rest of his eternal days watching Saruman gleefully take pleasure in his pain?

He diverted his thoughts. Anger clenched his heart. By Elbereth, he wanted a long, hot bath! The aroma of a good meal and wine amongst his family tortured his senses! He long to see the sun! He missed Mirkwood more with each long hour spent in silent captivity. He wished to see his father's knowing, proud smile, and listen to his brothers spar and argue. To race among the trees, to defend their borders beside Vardaithil's ancient strength, to sing a sweet lyric of summer with Aratadarion, even to debate with Astaldogald… his heart wept for this. The familiar smells and sounds of his home ached in his bones. Terribly he wished to banter with Gimli. Despite himself he found himself worried for his Dwarf friend. So gruff and proud, the little creature held such a great heart. Never would Legolas forgive himself if Gimli were to fall in battle! Ruefully a tiny grin tugged at his cracked, bloody lips. The silence was heavy, and he longed to hear the entertaining and heartening stupidity of Merry and Pippin. He prayed that Sam and Frodo were well. So great was the yearning to see them that it shook him. Aragorn's friendly smile invaded his mind, and there it lingered. He desperately pined for days past, when things were simpler, when hearts were unburdened. Legolas dreamed again that he was in Rivendell, sparring with Aragorn lightly, listening to Arwen laugh at their silly games, dining with Lord Elrond and his family, singing to the stars afterwards atop the lofty branches of the great trees, sleeping in the embrace of peace. These memories brought tears to his eyes. Would he ever again see Aragorn? Would he once more return to Rivendell and sit with Arwen in companionable silence under the moon? Would he find his way home to his forests, to his brothers, to his father?

An angry cry of frustrated despair fled his lips, and he balled his right hand into a fist tight enough to draw blood from his palm. _Curse you, Boromir! I pray your guilt torments your heart as my rage does mine! _Tears threatened again, but he was too furious and frightened to cry.

After a moment, he regained himself. His ire gave him strength, but he would not pity himself. He had chosen this fate willingly. And though his memories, wishes, and dreams hurt him, they drove him to have hope. If Saruman took away that, he truly would be reduced to heartless, helpless, pitiful shadow. Only then would he no longer be a prince and an Elf.

So he sang. At first his voice was weak and raspy, its tone marred by screaming and dryness. His heart wavered uncertainly, afraid that, upon hearing his song, the beasts would return and hit him anew for his impudence. But as the moments passed, he gained confidence, and lifted his voice to the shadows above. He sang and sang, letting the anguish of his heart escape in melody. Idly he wondered if the sun and trees could hear him. Though he knew not, thinking as such brought him courage.

Time passed, and he thought of many things. He thought of the Fellowship. He thought of Mirkwood and Rivendell. He thought of Aragorn and Arwen. Of Men and Elves and the strange twists of fate that united and divided. He thought of Sam and the Ring. Such a small creature, changing the course of history. He wished he could have done more. He wondered if the chance was not yet lost.

There came talk down the hall. He stilled his voice and strained his ears. For a mortal, the words would have been undetectable, much less discernible. But he detected them easily enough. A man's voice came first, the tone meek and nasal, his words lined with desperation. "My Lord, you must understand, I meant no disrespect!"

"You disgust me, Wormtongue." A deep voice, livid with cold anger. Saruman. "The weaklings of Rohan pose no threat to me. To suggest my Uruk-hai would fail is blasphemous! Do you seek to judge the will of Sauron?"

"Nay, oh Lord, but I speak out of duty! Surely you must see that! If the men of the Mark march to Isengard, you will be cornered!"

"You have failed me, Wormtongue, and now you doubt my wisdom. For this, I shall kill you." The words were cold and evil.

A terrified shriek. "Please, Lord, stay your anger! There was naught I could do! A strange man came and took Théoden's ear! My advice was shunned!"

Silence a moment. Legolas' brow furrowed in confusion. "A strange man? Of what sort?" Saruman questioned slowly, his tone slithering through the air.

Wormtongue's response was quick, the words nearly slurring. "A ranger. I knew not of his face, but the name was notorious. The Elfstone and heir of Isildur, Aragorn, son of Arathorn." Legolas' heart stopped. For a moment, he could not think or breathe. _Aragorn is alive! _"He spoke cleverly and convinced Théoden to move against you. I tried to talk him out of such foolery, but the king would not have it! He spurned me and placed his weak niece upon the throne!"

Neither Saruman nor Legolas listened to the traitor's rambling. "Did the man have halflings in his company?" the Istar snapped loudly. The Elf felt the blood drain from his face. He found he could do nothing in his worry and fear but listen. "Answer, you fool!"

"I know not surely, for I am unaware of the race! He had four or five Dwarves with him, I reckon," Wormtongue declared, his tone distant, as though in thought.

"There was but one Dwarf. The smaller folk were halflings. How many did you see?" Saruman explained icily.

Wormtongue hesitated. Legolas' mind was reeling. "Three or four, oh Lord."

"Well, which was it? Three or four?"

Another yelp. "I cannot remember, Lord! I did not think it of importance!"

Saruman growled. Then there was the thunder of footsteps slapping against the stone tunnel. Legolas closed his eyes briefly, knowing what was coming and dreading it. There was angry shouting, yelling in Dark Speech, and a squeal. Then the door to his cell slammed open.

White robes contrasted powerfully against the black of the prison, but the demon that bore them matched the shadows well. Legolas looked up to Saruman, searching for strength. If Aragorn was alive, there was yet hope for them all! He must not now submit! "It seems that your companions have reappeared," the wizard sneered, gripping his staff tightly. Legolas said nothing, fury glinting in his eyes, as he stared at the wizard. He ground his teeth. A long silent moment passed, wrought with tension and rage. Wormtongue watched the display numbly, shying backwards to the Orcs that had entered. The glares between Elf and the Istar crackled with lightning. Then Saruman howled in anger and ripped his staff upward.

Legolas could not struggle as an incredible force grabbed him. Weightlessly he was flung backwards, and the second of flight seemed to last forever. Then he struck the wall hard, and his wounded back flared in wrenching agony. His world shattered, and he screamed.

As the Elf sunk to the floor in a breathless daze of hurt, leaving a sick trail of blood down the wall, the wizard's eyes burned in anger. "Speak, you fool!" he demanded. Then he ripped the staff around.

Again the intangible weight struck the poor Elf, sending him crashing into the far wall of the room. This time Legolas could not cry out, his lungs burning for air, his heart pumping pain all around his body. The force held him pressed to the wall, binding him to the surface with invisible ties, and he could not find the strength to even cry.

Like a demon of the deep, Saruman stepped closer. Legolas writhed helplessly as he was squeezed and pulled. Through blurry, teary eyes, he watched the Istar advance upon his body. "You returned the Ring to the Fellowship," Saruman hissed, narrowing his fiery eyes, "to the Halfling who carried it." The air around his wounded chest constricted, grinding bone into bone, and Legolas gasped. Blackness was sucking him down deep, and he was drowning in it. "Tell me, Legolas, or I will break every bone in your body!"

He choked, tears running down his bloody face. "No," he grunted through clenched teeth. Terror and hatred drove him. "I did not!"

One of his ribs snapped and he howled. "You lie, Elfling. Do not test me!" Another sickeningly cracked.

Legolas was slipping away from life. Bright, thick blood dripped to the floor. "Please," he moaned weakly, terrified of the darkness all around him, desperate to stop the pain.

Saruman looked amused. With a small grunt of satisfaction, he neared the hapless Elf prince. His long, white hand came to cup Legolas' quivering chin. "This secret you hold burns you," he said quietly. The elegant thumb wiped a tear coursing its way down Legolas' pale cheek. "I know your pain. You are alone here. No one will save you. No one will help you. Your misery is great, and you doubt that it will in the end avail you."

Legolas felt a sob well up in his throat. Every part of his body was screaming in intense agony. The words were soft, almost comforting, a balm to his brutalized soul. He wanted to relent then, to let go this painful choice, and find release. He almost did give into the want of his weary heart and worn body. Only the familiar sadistic glint of Saruman's eyes kept him attached to reason. The wizard would never care for his plight or free him from his hurt!

Yet the strength to defy was fading into the swallowing blackness. Saruman smiled. It was a sick sight. "Tell me where the Ring is, Legolas. Your needless suffering wears you. I will release you from it, if you only say what I want." Legolas whimpered, tears flooding his eyes. The grip upon his jaw turned harsh, the long white nails stabbing into young flesh. "Tell me!"

"I will not!" the Elf cried loudly, squeezing his eyes shut. His defiance was immediately rewarded. The undetectable ties that bound him to the wall suddenly repulsed him, sending him hurtling forward at frightening speeds. With a bone-jarring crunch, his struck the opposite wall once more. Intense agony burst through him and he slumped to the floor. The ache stabbed him. He tried to lean up, but he was torn and broken inside. He tasted something warm and bitter. For a moment he could make no sense of it, his mind as jumbled as his body. Then panic pulsed through him. All he could do to stop from choking on his own blood was weakly turn over, the red gore spilling from his mouth as he painfully coughed and retched.

A long time seemed to pass. For the Elf, it was an eternity of grief and terror, of pain and exhaustion, and his body shook in its defeat. He collapsed in a pool of his blood. Then, over the ringing in his ears, a conversation came again. "Pitiful creature. His loyalty will destroy him." Had Legolas been aware enough to make sense of what he heard, he would have bristled at the wizard's mocking tones.

"What are we to do now, oh Lord?" one of the Orcs that had entered asked.

"I doubt what remains of the Fellowship has the Ring. If it did, it makes no sense for their leader to involve them in this pointless fray allied with Rohan." A quiet moment. Legolas concentrated on breathing. He could not find the strength to move. He felt detached from his body, the pain a numb and foreign experience. His limbs were limp and would not heed to his commands. His eyes were slipping shut no matter how he sought to fight it. "The Ring continues to elude the Eye, and the Elf grows weaker."

Wormtongue spoke again. "What of Rohan's army?"

"They are but insignificant insects. Let them valiantly face my Uruk-hai. They will fall."

"And if they do not?" countered Wormtongue. "Respectfully, my Lord, they would surround Isengard. You would be trapped."

"What would you suggest?" Saruman asked after a quiet moment.

"Move, sir. Travel to Minas Morgul and then to Barad-Dûr. There the mortals dare not tread, and Sauron's forces will protect you."

_Barad-Dûr…_ Vaguely, where his mind was not succumbed with pain, Legolas was afraid. Sauron's stronghold. If they should take him there, there would be no escape! His soul quaked in pain as his eyes unwittingly closed.

Saruman seemed to contemplate. Finally he spoke. "You have now proved your worth, Wormtongue. Though I grow anxious at the thought of nearing Sauron's power, your suggestion holds much merit. If indeed the Elf somehow managed to return the Ring to one of the halflings, surely it now travels through Mordor. The Hobbit certainly will seek to continue where the others have fallen. From thence, I will undoubtedly find it."

Deep inside, Legolas screamed.

"We travel immediately. Make all the necessary preparations." There was a stampede of leaving feet.

"What of the Elf?"

"With us he will come." Sick emptiness. Saruman said harshly, "He will tell us which of the halflings has what we seek. I will break him."

Then an eerie silence came, long and steady. The black sea of suffering held the young archer prisoner, squeezing his light, choking his heart. He could not struggle. Falling footsteps, swishing robes. A quiet breath against the stillness. Dimly he felt a hand touch his face. "Never again will you know joy, Legolas," Saruman quietly repeated. "Never again will you shine. The shadows will have a beautiful prisoner in you."

The cold, hard grasp left. With a shrill whine, the door to the cell slammed shut.

The Elf faded away in his pain. The cell, once filled with both song and scream, grew silent.

* * *

><p>Helm's Deep had become eerily quiet, but it did not comfort Aragorn. Nor did it relieve him, for, though the Orcs had stayed their assault momentarily, he knew beyond any doubt that they were still outside, most likely regrouping for another charge. The king held his breath and listened, closing his weary eyes. Hornburg was silent. It was tightly packed, men squeezed against each other. Down below, in the belly of the fort, the air hung hot and oppressive. The wounded were laid out, many caught between life and death, shuddering in a final fight with mortality, their skin clammy and white. A shroud of depression came over them all. Even upon the wall, where Aragorn now sat, looking upon the moon, melancholy invaded.<p>

Long hours had passed. The very beginnings of dawn were coming to the land, the eastern skies turning orange and red as the sun wearily rose. Aragorn watched it blearily, feeling exhaustion pummel his dry eyes and battered body. How lethargic it was! Would this night never end?

He turned to Gimli, who sat beside him. The Dwarf's back was pressed to the wall for support, his head bowed low. He might have been sleeping, though Aragorn could not tell. Not far from him slumbered Merry and Pippin, each wrapped in a green blanket for warmth. They seemed content enough, their faces placid, and Aragorn could not help but envy them for their peace. His heart was far too heavy to lapse into dream. Only Haldir seemed alert. The Elf sat cross-legged beside him. Nimble fingers worked with wooden shafts and a white dagger, trying to repair arrows. He did not speak, his long face as calm as ever. His pale hair glowed in the waning night still like silver. Every so often he would raise his head, as if at a distant sound, and his eyes would narrow. This gesture attracted Aragorn's attention, but the Elf would always turn quickly back to his work before the ranger could detect what disturbed him. Aragorn grew a bit frustrated at this; he was so accustomed to Legolas' intuitions that Haldir's aloof actions baffled him. He supposed the Lórien archer would long be in his company now, so he would eventually learn.

The solemnity of the men of Rohan seemed unbreakable. The army had begun deeply mourning their lost king. Aragorn was worried at their despondent expressions. They had clearly already accepted their defeat, and that was unnerving. Théoden had once been a great man, even if he had recently lost his way in wine and wealth. Aragorn regretted that now he would never come to appreciate the wisdom of the old king. To see a noble leader fall in battle had been tragic, yet this he would not allow to conquer him. They still must fight.

Yet now he wondered what to do. They had suffered heavy losses at the hands of the unexpectedly large army. Their forces had been more than halved, many of the men laying dead in the fields below, some still crying for rescue. He knew not how many of the enemy they had destroyed but doubted that they had the advantage of greater size. The Orcs had surely surrounded Hornburg, cutting off their escape. Although he knew at the time that fleeing into the fort was the only option, now he wondered if there might not have been a better alternative. Retreating to Edoras would have only led the Orcs to plunder the city. Even now the decision he had implored Éomer to make aggravated him. If it later turned into wicked error, it would be his fault that their army was obliterated at the hands of Saruman.

And so there was little else to do than wait. They dared not leave the security of Hornburg. The Orcs were content to cruelly taunt them. Aragorn knew eventually they would attack. If the endless blanket of night would ever lift, they might have a chance to defend themselves! The dawn seemed a distant and hopeless dream. He dared not sleep, not with such an ominous threat pacing the perimeter of their haven. The anticipation drove him mad, tickling his skin and his senses. He could not find patience, the calm elusive and teasing. Frustrated, he closed his eyes and licked his lips. He tried vehemently not to drive himself insane with his incessant thinking.

Éomer approached after a bit on light footfalls. Tentatively the Rider looked over the wall, peering into the shadows of the early sunrise. Before Hornburg was a misty field of blood, wreckage, and disaster. Aragorn opened his eyes as he felt Éomer shudder. "We have failed," Éomer moaned softly, "and it was my foolish judgment that drove my Lord forth in this reckless decision."

Aragorn felt his own guilt rise. He as well had convinced Théoden to make a defense of Helm's Deep. How many lives had been lost because of it? "We did not know," he rationalized after a moment. "How could we have?"

Éomer swallowed and sank to his knees quietly. Haldir looked up from his arrows momentarily. "Rohan without her king. Dark times are these! Who now shall lead us?" the prince wondered quietly. Aragorn had no answer, glancing towards Haldir. The Elf said naught, his knife moving along the thin shafts in his lap. Éomer rubbed his forehead tiredly. "We will perish here. The sun does not scare these Orcs, these monsters bred of Saruman's corruption. Nothing can save us!"

"Have faith," Aragorn implored, unable to stand to hear Éomer's depression. _Have faith,_ he thought bitterly. _Where am I to find it?_

Éomer did not speak, but it was clear his musings were the same. He looked young and lost, as if a child torn from his parent. Aragorn supposed that in a way he was. Then they fell silent, giving in to dismal contemplation, and the scrape of Haldir's knife grew loud.

Not long after the Elf perked up again. For a moment he sat stiffly, lifting his head to the sky. Then he stood, abandoning his task, and stepped to the wall. Aragorn watched him intently, and then rose himself, ignoring the stiff complaints of his weary muscles.

As the light of dawn slowly crept from the east, a grisly nightmare was unveiled. The Orc army, though reduced in size, crowded close to Hornburg. They clawed at the stone like ants desperate to climb and penetrate the inside. This alarmed Aragorn, but it was not what had alerted Haldir. The ranger gazed upon the Elf fixedly, watching his keen eyes scan what was before him.

Éomer seemed baffled. "What does the Elf sense?" he asked.

Haldir's hand came down, stopping the flow of conversation. All were silent, holding breath and heart. Then Aragorn heard it. It was a deep bellow of a horn, faint at first, but growing steadily louder. It was blown again and again, as if announcing a presence, as if proclaiming hope. Haldir's face broke. "The horn of Gondor!"

The announcement stirred them. Both Gimli and the Hobbits jolted to their senses. Aragorn's stomach leapt to his throat, and he looked to the west. There, amongst the trees! The low rumble of the horn, noble and melodic, shook Helm's Deep. Came thence was an army of men. Battered but resolute, they broke into a run with a proud battle cry, streaming across the field with weapons raised.

Éomer numbly shouted, "Lord Erkenbrand!" Aragorn turned to speak, but the prince was already sprinting down the stairs. "Rise, my friends, and see the dawn! We are saved! We are saved! Draw your weapons and face the enemy, for the Lords of Rohan ride into battle valiantly!"

A great clamor rose through Hornburg, and the tight tension snapped. Men were roused, pulling again swords from their sheaths. An elated call went through the troops, and they courageously resumed their hopes. Outside they launched as the battalion of Erkenbrand met them, surrounding the enemy. Trapped and surprised, the Orc army screamed and shrieked. They scattered, some trying to scale the wall, others fleeing haphazardly. With a great fervor, the battle again began. This time, though, the Orcs were the faction caught off their guard, and in a matter of minutes, the army of Rohan had nearly triumphed.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes as he saw a man dressed in leather with sandy brown hair and beard run in front of the men, his blade raised to strike. Rage boiled inside the ranger. He clenched a fist upon the wall of the fort as the archers of Rohan and Haldir let loose a fresh volley of arrows upon the Orcs below. His anger burned him.

Gimli spoke beside him, "Why do you hesitate, Aragorn? Let us join them!" He was about to run down the stairs and brandish his great axe, but his curiosity seemed to stay him. The blood rushed to the Dwarf's bearded face when he traveled the ranger's line of sight.

There, leading the charge of Rohan. _Boromir. _

Wrath snapped inside Aragorn. In blind fury he drew Andúril from its sheath. The sword sang of his rage and he turned, racing down the stairs. Outside men cheered and shouted at the retreating Orcs, exacting their revenge in a flurry of stabs and arrows. The throng of battle was thick, but it did not slow Aragorn. The world had closed in around him, and all he could do was run, pushing through Orc and man alike with an unrelenting drive.

He found what he sought. His restraint fled him in a brief moment of hot, uncontrollable anger, and he swung.

A cry of warning came from another soldier, alerting his victim of his move, and Boromir reacted with lightning reflexes, dropping the white horn he had held to this lips from his hand and twirling.

Andúril smacked against the blade of Gondor, and lightning seared between the two men.

Everything was still.


	10. Man and Monster

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER TEN: MAN AND MONSTER**

It was a strange thing to see two men once sworn as allies against a common foe now locked in a struggle on the field of a horrible battle. Against all fates there they stood, sword to sword, glare against piercing glare, and the air grew stiff. Sound was swallowed by the hungry tension. Though elsewhere man fought Orc, and swords sang through the misty morning air, here there was nothing but the startling sight. Inconceivable as it may be, it was true to all eyes as the men and the Dwarf watched with gaping stares.

In a split second the hold on them all broke, and Aragorn snarled, "You demon! Traitor!"

The words hurt Boromir deeply, but his fury would not allow him to retreat. He ground his feet into the loose soil for leverage, his arms shaking with the strain of holding the enraged ranger at bay. With a howl he pushed back Aragorn, breaking their stances, and he stumbled.

"Murderer!" cried Gimli from Aragorn's side. The stout Dwarf raised his bloodied axe. His face was the picture of a vengeful nightmare. But he was restrained by Aragorn's arm, which shot before him as if to take rights to the taking of Boromir's life. Boromir turned his eyes back to the heir of Isildur. He met fire and rage. Disgust. The glare cut into him, cleaving all hope from his heart, and in spite of himself, he found himself returning a look of loathing. There was an unspoken challenge and unfathomable hatred. He had hoped to make peace with Aragorn, but he knew now that such a dream had been folly; Aragorn would not trust him so easily. He had been a fool to expect anything but a fight!

By now the men of Rohan had arrived. He felt Erkenbrand come up beside him, winded, and heard the lord's old sword ring as it exited his sheath. "What is the meaning of this?" demanded the aging commander in a deep, angry tone. Neither Boromir nor Aragorn answered or broke their glares, holding their own weapons tightly. Time seemed to lean towards bloodshed.

A blond man, young but of high stature and adorned in dented and bloodied armor, jogged closer and stopped near Aragorn. His face broke in obvious confusion at the peculiar sight before him. Then the man's eyes fell to Erkenbrand. Before Boromir could speak, Erkenbrand shouted, "Drop your weapon, stranger, for you know not whom you threaten!" At this the commander raised his own blade.

Aragorn narrowed his eyes. "I know all too well," he hissed venomously.

Boromir's heart was thundering painfully in his chest, and his palms were clammy as tighter he clenched the hilt of his blade. For the pain of his spirit, he had to stop this fight! But his own pride and spite would not allow him to lower his guard or his blade, and he cursed himself for this failing. "I do not wish to fight you here," he declared lowly, finding his tone repulsively seething, "but I will if you do not stand down and allow me to explain!"

"Stand down?" repeated the blond soldier incredulously, irritation popping in his gaze. Another sword came free from its scabbard. "Who are you to question the will of this man, for he is the Elessar, the heir of Isildur?"

A surprised murmur went through the crowd of Erkenbrand's troops that had assembled in curiosity. Then Erkenbrand himself stepped into the divide between the two forces. "And you should learn well of thought before action, Éomer, son of Éomund, for this man who you brush aside is the son of Denethor and the steward of Gondor! We owe him our allegiance!"

Now came a hush of confusion and amazement that took hold tightly of the instant, and it did not easily release it. Weapons were the language of the silence, wavering in taut anxiety and distrust. Aragorn's infuriating glower had not abated, the dark gray eyes intense upon Boromir, and the son of Gondor felt his insides grind in agony. _Drop your sword! _his mind reproached sternly. _Drop it now, and make the peace you seek! Let go of your pride! Stand down!_

His ego could not be defeated by his guilt and sorrow, no matter how smothering and demanding they became, and he narrowed his own gaze dangerously, refusing to either be bested or be made a coward. Hot anger made his form tight, each limb poised to strike.

It was Aragorn who finally broke the harsh moment. The ranger dropped his blade slowly, skeptically. But he did not lower his gaze. "Speak if you wish then," growled the ranger, "but your words will not weasel your way again into my trust."

Something stung Boromir's eyes, and he distantly realized it was the salt of his tears. He cursed himself for his weakness and his desires. The guilt welled up inside again, and he had to fight to maintain his resolve. Damn Aragorn for reducing him to such! "I would, but in the silence of privacy, for what I wish to say is a sensitive thing."

"You have lost that right, Boromir. Speak now!" Gimli raged.

He winced but said nothing. The words he had rehearsed endlessly to himself during his trek from Isengard were now lost in a maelstrom of awkward shame and attention, and he finally broke his gaze. His eyes fell to the trampled grasses, and the scene grew blurry with wetness.

"Speak," Aragorn ordered quietly. His voice held no compassion. "Where is the Ring?"

Boromir jerked. "Ring? What is the nature of this Ring that it might divide two men of solid loyality?" questioned Erkenbrand in frustrated urgency. He was ignored.

A silent moment came, laden with palpable rage and hurt. "Where is it, Boromir? There is no time to hesitate!" Aragorn snapped harshly.

"I know not," Boromir responded quickly, nearly interrupting the other. He looked up, clenching his fist tightly to stop its infernal shaking, and met Aragorn's eyes. The ranger was surprised, but it hardly seemed to show on his hard, stony face. "I would tell you if I did!"

Aragorn shook his head sharply. "Tell us what you do know, son of Denethor, and do so plainly, for I have not the patience to stand for your lies."

The rage boiled within him again, but he would not submit to its fiery release. He would not! "I had it but a few hours," he stated through clenched teeth, again averting his eyes. He could not stand to look at Aragorn's disapproval and disgust. "But it was lost. The Orcs did not find it."

"Lost?"

_Tell him,_ his mind implored. He hesitated. This would incur the ranger's wrath like nothing else! It was this he had feared when wandering in a daze of pain and guilt! Could he now subject himself to the punishment he knew he so rightly deserved? _Tell him! _"Legolas took it," he declared finally. His eyes burned and his throat constricted around the words as though struggling to keep them within. "He wrested it from me and ran into the woods. When I again came upon him, the Ring was gone."

Aragorn's glare shattered. For the briefest moment it was still, and Boromir stood in a quivering expectation. Then the ranger demanded, "Where is Legolas? And Sam?"

Something suddenly fell into place for Boromir. It was so odd that never before had he considered it, for it seemed simple and stupidly obvious! Where had the Ring gone? What could Legolas have possibly done with it to so completely separate it from him? Why, but give it to another! If Sam was not among those of the Fellowship, then he was the obvious recipient! His mind reeled with the possibility. Surely Sam would seek to continue to Mordor. Brave Sam. Loyal Sam. He had to have the Ring! This undoubtedly explained Legolas' defiance; he was protecting Sam, holding deep inside him the secret of what the two had done for the sake of the Hobbit's safety. This knowledge caressed again his desires that he thought long dead, suffocated by his own nobility and shame. The desire to find the Ring. To touch it. To feel its glory again and to know the promise of its power. He had to find it. His heart thundered, his blood ran inside him in a rush of arousal, and his mind was a flurry of pleasurable memories.

Suddenly he was yanked forward, and he snapped from his reverie. The world crashed down upon him, and he was faced with the cold fury of Aragorn's frantic eyes. "Where are they?" he yelled, his fists balled in the cloth of Boromir's tunic.

Boromir was shaken by how easily the desire again had surfaced in him. "I…" he stammered, his senses overloaded with memory. He licked his dry lips. "Sam was not among the Uruk-hai. Never did they come upon him. This I swear!"

Aragorn slowly let him go, distrust and relief at once evident on his face. "And Legolas?" he asked carefully, never releasing Boromir from his gaze.

_And Legolas…_ Boromir quivered and hesitated. This was the moment that would define him, and he stood at this crossroad confused and dazed. The consequences of the truth daunted him. Could he bear to be so exposed in front of Aragorn? This he could not escape. But which would be more painful, he wondered quickly. The truth was vile and undeniable; he had left Aragorn's closest friend to the sadistic whims of Middle Earth's most treacherous enemy. But a lie seemed so much worse. Yet this he could not completely turn away. He knew what he would say. The rancorous words he found burning at his lips and stinging his heart, and it alarmed him. He wanted to tell Aragorn that Legolas was dead. He wanted to hurt the ranger for his spiteful words and arrogant glares. _And why should I not? _he wondered bitterly. Surely Saruman would kill the Elf for his defiance, if he had not done so already. It would not be so much a lie in the end.

Then his heated blood turned cold and he shuddered. He felt the color drain from his face. _What sort of monster have I become?_

"What have you done to him?" demanded Aragorn furiously, again advancing on Boromir and snatching away his dark and disturbing thoughts. The ranger was a black menace, a vicious and cruel punisher, and the cold war between Boromir's hurting anger and frightened conscience seemed at an impasse.

Silence. Then the stampede of falling feet. Others were coming. Men were running from the fort bearing bows and expressions of confusion. A blond, lithe Elf that Boromir recognized to be Haldir from Lórien swiftly and elegantly approached, his sword raised. This he dropped at the strange scene, but the stoic calm never fled from his face. Boromir had not to time to question the Elf's enigmatic appearance among the Fellowship, for behind Haldir came a quiet and familiar banter. Inside his heart broke.

Merry and Pippin pushed forward the crowd of men. When they saw him, they said no more. Upon their innocent faces was a mark of shock. Wide-eyed and amazed, they gazed upon him, as if unbelieving that anything at all had ever separated their group. Then Merry closed his mouth and his eyes grew to slits. In them Boromir saw a great many things: anger, fear, disgust… betrayal. Pippin shook his head blankly.

Pain spread all over his body, a horrible hurt that he had not the strength to face. Was this to be his greatest trial? To lay bare his terrible crimes before all he once held dear? He released a slow breath to steady himself, desperately struggling to still the racing of his straining heart.

"Answer!"

Quickly he stated, "I do not know what has become of him." It was the only thing he could think to say.

"You lie!" cried Gimli. "Speak the truth or my axe shall sever your serpent tongue!"

Rage spilled inside the man from Gondor, filling his spirit and burning his bones. "I do not lie," he hissed, glaring at the Dwarf. Gimli's face paled. "He would not tell us what he did with the One Ring. He defied and taunted instead of submitting. Saruman took him captive in Isengard." Boromir let loose a sharp, mad laugh. What he had left unsaid was achingly clear. "I did not know what the Elf expected to come of it! If he had only spoke the truth… If he had only had some sense!" The words came faster and faster, slurring with thick emotion, and he choked on a sob. "I tried to stop him from his foolery! I swear on the noble blood of my father, I pleaded with him, Aragorn! But he would not listen to me!"

The confession hung on the air, stunning the men of Rohan into silence. Aragorn appeared distressed and unbelieving, his expression slack and his complexion white. Then anger slowly crept into his gaze. "Is he still alive?" the quiet ranger then asked malevolently.

Moisture blurred Boromir's vision, but he found he could not force words from his mouth so intense was the pain, horror, and rage he felt inside. At his vacillation, Aragorn fumed. "_Is he still alive?_"

He spat, "I know not!"

Then they were still, locked in time, and held prisoner cruelly by the fates to wallow in the horrid tidings of the moment. The steward stared upon the would-be king, and the king shook in ire and contempt. "You left him," seethed Aragorn, his eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. His words stank of a ruined trust and promised vengeance. "You detestable beast! You left him, did you not? You abandoned him to the tortures of the black, to Saruman's insanity, to…" Aragorn trailed off, his voice broken in pain, and he looked away.

Boromir drew courage enough to again gaze upon the ranger. "What would you have had me do, Aragorn?" he snapped. "There was naught I could in Saruman's stronghold! Alas, I wished for nothing more than to free him, but we would have both been slain! Those are not the actions of a wise man!"

"But they are the those of a friend," countered Aragorn.

_You are no friend of mine. _

And he could hold in his anguish no longer. Quietly it spilled from his eyes. His last reserve of resolve disappeared in the cold truth of Aragorn's accusations and Legolas' words. How could he have done this? Legolas was gone. Legolas would die. His own hand had committed the foul deed. This was the undeniable reality, the cold truth that he could not erase for all the yearning of his soul!

But he did not speak. He did not have the bravery. He did not feel himself worthy. He closed his eyes and waited for Aragorn to fill the void within and out. "What is it you want, Boromir?" the ranger finally asked, ending the unending silence. "Do not ask forgiveness; it shall not come to you."

"I would not," said Boromir quickly in cold anger, once again at bristling at Aragorn's superiority. Though he ached inside for Legolas' plight, he still loathed Aragorn. "I seek only to offer aid as I once did. The Ring no longer holds my heart, and it will not again." The words bit at his conscience inside, but he ignored it. Slowly he lifted the blade of Gondor. Though it took great will, he lowered himself to one knee and bowed his head. He presented the weapon to Aragorn with both gloved hands. "My sword follows your lead."

The offer lingered alone in the field of the dead. Aragorn did not move or speak a moment. Though Boromir did not raise his head to look upon the ranger, he felt the worry and hate seep from the other's being. Then came footsteps, slow and deliberate. First just one man, his stride proud and cold. After others followed, shorter strides of a Dwarf, light feet of the Elf. Boromir cringed inside as they all walked away from him without so much as a word. Cruel treatment indeed!

There was shouting and more yelling returned, as though the tense scene before had never occurred, as though Boromir did not exist. Aragorn's voice rose over the din. "Prince Éomer, ready your men. We march to Isengard."

After was a volley of conflicting exclamations that Boromir cared not to hear. To the dejected man, the words meant nothing. The blade of Gondor fell idly to the grass from numb fingers. Tears streaked down his dirty face as the wind picked up, brushing his hair back with a soft caress. He raised his eyes.

Lingering before him were Merry and Pippin. He saw them, standing as though transfixed, staring at him as though he was less of a man and more of a ghost. He wanted to speak, to say something, anything, to assuage the growing division he felt between himself and the Hobbits. Yet there were no words that erase the treachery or the hurt. Never again would their faith fill that void.

His gaze was imploring, speaking at length of his regret where his lips could not, but it was brushed aside. Merry glared hatefully upon him. "Come on, Pip," he said quietly, grabbing his cousin by the arm before pulling him in the direction of the others. Pippin staggered and gaped a moment more, and then he too, the last hope Boromir had, abandoned him.

He was alone now. He feared he always would be. Both man and monster, both friend and foe. Neither trusted nor feared. Simply cast aside, unfaithful redemption rejected and unspoken apology refused. He knelt in the field, surrounded by the dead, and wept. They were the only ones that heard his pain.

* * *

><p>Time passed for them all, but for the lone traveler of eastward intentions, it seemed to drag its feet.<p>

Frodo had once loathed the undeniable silence of traveling alone, for though he was a mellow Hobbit, he enjoyed the companionship of his friends. He had changed much though since leaving the Shire, and now free from the weight of the One Ring, he found a strange strength coming from his solitude. The silence gave him a chance to heal, an opportunity to again find himself. During the strenuous journey from Rivendell to Caradhas, and then through Moria, he had reveled quietly in the whims and words of their motley group. He had benefited greatly from Aragorn's keen, strong eyes and from Gandalf's wise reassurances. He had laughed at Merry and Pippin's inane antics, and enjoyed Sam's silent loyalty. In Gimli's boisterous tales of Dwarven might he found entertainment, and from Legolas' unwavering protection and soft, calming songs he drew security. And Boromir had been tall and proud, strong and courageous in the darkest places of Moria yet laughing joyfully in wrestling with Merry and Pippin.

The memory turned sour with anger and bitterness. Again the man's corrupted words filled his mind. _"None of us should wander alone, you least of all. So much depends on you."_

_Only Sam depends on me now. _

_"I know why you seek solitude. You suffer. I see it day by day. Be sure you do not suffer needlessly. There are other ways, Frodo. Other paths that we might take."_

One small twist of fate had changed everything and veiled the sun. _Other paths indeed!_

The memories came, though he did not want them, and he closed his eyes, stopping still in the forest. Boromir's rage flashed through him like lightning, intent upon sundering his calm. _"If you would but lend me the Ring. Why do you recoil? I am no thief!"_ The warning inside had pierced him with panic then, but it had done little good. He had only stood mortified, watching as noble man morphed into a wretched monster. The kind concern in Boromir's eyes had been gone in a blink, replaced by the coldness of contempt and greed. _"What chance do you think you have? They will find you. They will take the Ring and you will beg for death before the end! You fool!"_ The cold ground had then struck him. _"If not for your sake I might have had a chance! It could have been mine! It should be mine! Give it to me! Give it to me!"_ A great weight on top of him, pummeling him, crushing him. He could not breathe. He could not even fight! Rough fingers ripping at his tunic, digging for the Ring. Then there was intense hurt at his forehead as Boromir's elbow at slammed into his temple, and he had fallen into blackness.

_"One by one, it will destroy them all."_ He opened his eyes then, the pain slow to recede. It left a wake of weary destruction. Frodo sighed slowly, his shoulders sagging, and slumped to the forest floor. He pressed his back to the thick, rough trunk of an old tree. There he sat, struggling to catch his running breath and reclaim his composure. After a moment of gasping, he slowed his heart. Galadriel had been right. It had brought ruin to each of his friends and to himself. This task of destroying the Ring had been appointed to him, and he had failed.

A few tears fled from his bright blue eyes and ran down his pale cheeks, and he was infinitely glad in that instance that he was spared the worried and prying looks of the others. He knew they had always meant well in their concern, but he also knew they could not understand. The duty had not been appointed to any but him, and though he was glad for their assistance, it had not been their failure that had resulted in such disaster. They did not know the weight of the Ring. They did not know its sick call. They had not seen the Eye burning through their nightmares. What had happened to him, what he had taken upon himself, was nothing to which even his closest companions could relate. And as such, they had not understood his inevitable seclusion. Words of some comfort came to him. _"You are a Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins. To bear a Ring of Power is to be alone."_ How true were Galadriel's words! Even now, without the burden of the Ring, he was on his own, in mind and body. This he could accept.

Though the few tears escaped, he quieted the quake of his heart and looked skyward. He might have failed the Fellowship, but he would not fail Sam.

Night was coming to the land. This was the fifth day since he had left the city of Rohan, he believed, and the sunset was always behind him each night, assuring him of his course. Though he knew not what to do when he reached his destination, he felt sure some sort of plan would come to him as he stealthily traveled east. He hoped to retrace the path Aragorn had taken in pursuit of the Orc army and find his way back to the shores of the Anduin and Amon Hen. He did not think he was very far away now. Albeit he held no wish to again visit those woods where fate had forsaken him, he hoped to find Sam there. He supposed it was silly to think that Sam had not left in all these days since the fateful fight, but he could not so easily cast this notion aside. At least there might be in that maze of forest some hint as to where Sam might have gone.

The shadows were growing longer as the sun sank to the horizon, and he was weary. Frodo glanced about slowly, taking stock of his surroundings. The trees were packed tightly together in a lattice of limb and leaf; it would provide adequate cover. He chose to rest in the thicket upon which he had inadvertently stumbled. This was a bit earlier than he normally retired from his day's walking, but he was extremely weary this night. Numbly he searched in his pack for the heavy woolen quilt he had taken from his room in Edoras. After producing that, he pulled out a bit of crusty bread, dried meat, and water. As he dined, he listened and watched. The woods were quiet and peaceful, and he felt no ill will from these trees. Legolas had once told him that each forest had a unique spirit all its own, and if one paid close enough attention, one could hear a melody of passing ages, of scars of fire and weather, of spring breezes and winter snows and all the creatures that had come to pass within the shelter of the trees. He had not the skill of the Elf to detect such an intricate and delicate thing, but he felt secure enough here in the sights of these ancient soldiers.

A long time passed in which Frodo did not think, content to simply feel, his mind blank and his expression impassive. A chilly breeze brushed by him, and he shrugged deeper into the warm blanket, leaning back into the embrace of the tree. The wind took with it his strength and his worries, and he looked up to the sky. The sun had disappeared, leaving the world in blackness. It was brilliant this night. Dotted with thousands of tiny specks of distant stars, the entire dome overhead seemed to twinkle gently. With tired eyes he sluggishly tried to count all the flickering lights. When they became too numerous for his exhausted mind, he gave up with a small smile and closed his eyes. How many times had he and Sam done the same stretched out in the cool fields of the hills of the Shire? It had become a summer habit, a quiet game they shared, laying in contemplative silence beneath the celestial blanket, counting and lazily dreaming.

His last thoughts before drifting to sleep were of Sam and the stars.

* * *

><p>Sam released a slow breath. A longing suddenly pricked him inside, and he raised his eyes. Though black clouds covered the sky, through the patchwork a few stars poked their light, shedding it silently and peacefully. The shy Hobbit stood still then, halting in his weary march, and watched the wispy tendrils of the clouds sweep over the stars as if in a caress. A hot wind came by that smelled of foul things. A queer feeling came to him. For the briefest of moments, he thought he heard the sound of Frodo's laugh on the breeze. Surely it was his imagination, but the sense had seemed so vivid that he unwittingly mistook it for truth, and he turned to glance behind him.<p>

Nothing but black rock and burnt ground. The hope that had inevitably been borne from the momentary impression crashed down, bringing with it his spirits, and his face fell. He lowered his gaze to the cracked, dried ground beneath his feet. Anew he began to miss his dear friend. Worries he had set aside for the sake of concentration on their journey returned with fierce demands, and his mind was swept away in melancholy. What was Frodo doing now? Surely Strider had kept them safe if they had survived the battle at Amon Hen. Strider would let no harm come to Frodo as long as the ranger had strength left within him to fight. Though the belief was entirely logical, he found it difficult to completely trust it. So much was unknown, and he had never been the optimist.

He squinted as he blankly stared into the black shadows. A thousand fond memories came to him, each equally enticing, and in their peace he basked. He recalled times of the Shire, of sharing a meal with his friend, of fishing and dancing, of ale and good pipeweed and stargazing. Through his memories inexplicably he felt connected to Frodo, though the distance between them was great. Sam knew relief then. Though he could not explain it, he knew Frodo was safe. He knew his dear friend was of solid mind and body. He sensed the other as clearly as he did Gandalf's great form ahead. Indeed he had worried much, and this was a sweet reprieve for his heart!

It was gone as quickly and as strangely as it had come, and he came back to his body. Yet he was grateful for this strange gift, this unexpected blessing on a dark night.

"Samwise, you tarry. Are you well?" came Gandalf's deep tones.

Sam startled a bit, and then blushed as he turned to meet the wizard's gaze. "Aye, Gandalf, sir. I was just thinking of Mister Frodo." The Hobbit glanced back behind him wistfully once more, as if to look again for Frodo's aura.

Gandalf chuckled quietly in spite of the dreary situation. "Friendship crosses many miles, my boy." Then he grew still. At his silence, Sam turned. He appraised the old wizard with narrowed and concerned eyes. Gandalf seemed troubled, his brow furrowed, his expression nearly a wince.

Sam grew perplexed and frightened. "Gandalf?"

The wizard released a slow breath. His voice lost its merriment. "A black air has come to us tonight," said Gandalf. He met the Hobbit's meek gaze. "The others are in turmoil, I sense." Panic pounded inside Sam, but he dared not say a word at Gandalf's intense visage. "Yes, it is a dark time for one."

"One," whispered Sam softly, the color draining from his face. He shook his head. "What can we do, Mister Gandalf?" he then asked. He could not keep the want from his tentative voice. He was imploring the wizard to lift these bitter tidings!

Gandalf released a slow breath and looked down. His white robes shone like the brightest star in the black world around them. "Nothing, I fear, for we are far too distant to be of any aid, and the goals of our minds must outweigh the pains of our hearts. If we turn back, a great sacrifice will have been made in vain."

Sam did not completely understand the old man, but saw enough reason in Gandalf's words to abandon his desire to somehow be of assistance to his friends. Obviously the strange air that had brought relief to him had carried dissonance to Gandalf. A curse veiled in comfort? That was a cruel trick!

Again Gandalf broke his reverie. A spot of wise reassurance had crawled back into his tone, and Sam met his strong eyes. "Fear not, Sam. Hope comes to them. In strange forms it may seem, but surely it does."

As they began to walk once more, Sam yearned for Gandalf's words to be true.

* * *

><p>There came a scratching. So deep in slumber was Frodo that he did not notice the sound. The woods were eerie and quiet, as if waiting for the commotion to break the silent night once more. It did, and this time it was quite a bit more pronounced and heavy, like footfalls scraping along dried leaves. A shadow was creeping about the trees, slithering like a snake.<p>

When the noise approached, Frodo stirred from his sleep. The frightening sound invaded his ears, and he sat up quickly, his pulse immediately jumping and his stomach clenching. He held his breath and strained his ears, his gaze frantically darting. It took a moment for him to shake away the hazy remnants of sleep. The blur of black took form in front of him, turning from terrifying apparitions into thick trunk and limb, as his eyes adjusted to the sparse illumination. But the sound came again and the frightened and panicked Hobbit rolled from his bed of the forest floor.

Frodo swallowed uncomfortably and turned in place quickly as he reached the center of the small thicket. Leaves swayed in the breeze, causing his heart to lurch at nothing, and he shook in fear. What was coming? His gooseflesh prickled as the noise became unbearably loud. A dragging, sliding gait it must have been, crackling the leaves loudly. Yet the shadows became no substance, neither of man nor demon, and he waited anxiously, cold sweat dribbling down his cheeks. His fear burned within him. He should never have left Aragorn's side!

Then he felt a weight at his hip, and common sense spurred his paralyzed mind and body into action. With a grunt he ripped Sting from her sheath, the sword blade coming free with a clear and satisfying sound. He nearly dropped it, his fingers clammy and clumsy, but maintained his grasp. The blade glowed like a spike of silver, but without the ethereal blue that clung to its edges with the nearness of Orcs. This simultaneously relieved and alarmed him, for if it was not an Orc had come upon his camp, it might be a friendly traveler meaning no harm. It could as well be something far worse.

"Come no closer!" he called into the darkness, forever shifting his stance as each shadow seemed equally suspicious. The rustling leaves stopped a moment, leaving a chilling emptiness. But the visitor was obviously undaunted, and soon after the approach resumed. The Hobbit gritted his teeth and felt his body shake. "I mean it!" he shouted again, forcing bravado into his voice. He lowered Sting into a defensive position to emphasize his words. "Who are you? Tell me, for I am armed!"

No answer. Frodo was beginning to lose his patience to his terror, his calm and his strength fleeting. Momentarily he considered running, but he quickly banished the idea. It would do him no good; if a creature fouler than an Orc had found him, he doubted he would be able to elude it.

A rustle of brush came from behind him, and he ripped around, wide-eyed. There, that shrub shook with movement! With a howl, the young Hobbit thundered forward, Sting leveled to strike. In the split second of his charge, the shadows took the form of a hunched being. He had not the time to be surprised as he came upon it. An ear-piercing shriek disturbed the oppressive quiet, and Frodo stopped.

There, barely inches from the dangerously sharp edge of his weapon, were eyes of a disturbing pale green. The lids flicked open and closed like that of a reptile. He recognized them immediately, and shock coursed through him. "Gollum…" he whispered hoarsely.

"Please, don't kill us!" came a cry. The words were more a hiss than anything, the "s" sound elongated with a serpent's accent. A strange glint that Frodo supposed to be recognition shone in the gaze. "Baggins," he hissed. Icy fear and hot repugnance claimed Frodo. He narrowed his eyes dangerously. "Good Hobbit, fair Hobbit, please spare us, _gollum!_"

The wretched creature was shivering in fear, and his thin, emaciated black arms came up to guard his lowered face. Frodo backpedaled, surprised at the strange appearance. His racing heart slowed a bit, but he would not lower his guard. Gollum had for days relentlessly pursued the Fellowship through Moria. He was a sick and twisted demon, pathetic in his obsession. He had once perhaps had the mind of a man, but the Ring had reduced him to nothing more than a lowly fiend. Frodo was disgusted. "What is you want of me?" he asked softly, though the answer was obvious.

The big green eyes gazed soullessly upon him. "The Ring…" he moaned. "Please give it to us… kind Hobbit. Return it to Sméagol, my precious… Yes, give it!" A grimy hand shot forth.

Frodo found himself snarling in hatred and he threatened Gollum with Sting, pushing the bright blade closer. "I don't have it," he snapped in anger. "I don't any more!"

Then Gollum let free a high-pitched wail. "Don't have it? No, don't have it! Give it to Sméagol! Give it!"

Murky revulsion sickened Frodo. "You'll never have it now, Gollum, do you understand?" He was surprised by the cruelty in his own voice, but he could not stifle it. His anger and hatred would not let him. "It's gone forever from you!"

For a moment the creature did naught but weep and snivel, still hidden in the foliage of the bush. A strange pity bit at Frodo enough to make the mellow Hobbit regret his harsh words. He thought it odd that he should feel sympathy for the beast that had betrayed his location to Sauron, forcing him to flee from the Shire. But Gandalf's wise words filled his mind. He had felt this rage before, when he had spotted Gollum trailing them through the winding and dark paths of Moria. This he had expressed to the wizard, but Gandalf had been far from accepting of his mindset. _"Many that live deserve death; some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them, Frodo? Do not be too eager to deal out death and judgment. Even the very wise cannot see all ends. My heart tells me that Gollum has some part to play yet, for good or evil, before this is over."_

Frodo licked his lips, remorseful of what he had said. "You do not need to follow it any more," he said quietly. He returned Sting to his sheath, but warily keep his hand close.

Gollum sobbed a moment more, but then he choked out, "Lost are we, _gollum! _Traveled to a great river we did but could not pass. Could not pass! Good Hobbit help us, yes? Help Sméagol find the Ring!"

Frodo tried to make sense of what he said. Clearly the creature had followed the Fellowship to the Anduin but had been unable to cross the river and reach the eastern shore. He wondered what drove Gollum, what directed his feet. How did he know where to find the Ring? And did this mean that the Ring was in Mordor? Frodo disregarded his thoughts and reminded himself that the evil trinket was no longer his concern. He then sighed. "I'm not looking for the Ring, understand."

Gollum grew quiet, disturbingly so. Then without warning the fiend leapt from the bush, pouncing upon the surprised Hobbit. Frodo yelped in surprise as a long white knife gleamed wickedly in the starlight. It snapped down towards him, and he hardly had but a second to sidestep. The sharp edge grazed his arm, slicing his tunic and drawing a bit of blood. Crazed with fear, he drew his own weapon once more, but barely had time to rightly defend himself, for Gollum was deceptively agile and was on him again in a mere moment. He hit the ground roughly with the creature on top of him, hissing and spitting, struggling to drive the knife down into the captive Hobbit. Frodo caught Gollum's wrist and pushed with all his strength, forcing the attacking hand back and the quivering blade from his own gasping throat. After a few moments of wrestling, he managed to slam his own hand up, ramming the hilt of Sting into the creature's slimy head. Gollum gave a squeal and fell limp on top of him.

Frodo was gasping, greatly shaken, tears of panic and fear filling his eyes. Then he scrambled from beneath the unconscious beast, untangling their limbs and scooting to the other edge of the thicket. There he stood, trying to regain his breathing, fighting against his fear. His arm began to sting, but he could not tear his terrified eyes from the prone beast but a few feet from him. He swallowed uncertainly as the forest grew still again. Gollum did not move. Had Frodo killed him?

On quiet feet, the scared Hobbit slowly neared the body. Sting still clenched in his sweaty hand, he knelt tentatively beside it, expecting at any moment for the beast to again attack him. Yet this Gollum did not do, unmoving and as still as the shadows once more. His small chest rose and fell, indicating breathing and life, but this did not relieve Frodo. With shaking fingers and wavering courage, he rapidly snatched the creature's weapon from the dirty, limp hand. Then he skittered back a safe distance.

He glanced at the acquired weapon. It was strikingly familiar to him. The hilt was meant for fingers longer than his, and the blade was slender, elegant, and of the purest metal. The pale, sleek knife glowed. Upon the hilt was an inscription in Elvish that he could not read. It then made sense, and the knowledge chilled and upset him. This was Legolas' knife.

Bile burned in the back of his throat, and the forest spun. For a moment he thought he might be sick, his knees suddenly rubbery and weak. Yet he did not fall. Vaguely he questioned why Gollum should have such a thing. Obviously he must have found it in the woods of Amon Hen as he searched for means to ford the Anduin. Did not this vile creature hate all things Elvish? Once the Hobbit had heard such. Still, if that were so, why would he have taken the lost knife? Truly this demon was of contradictions! Both man and monster, both mad and driven, both hating and loving.

He held the knife tighter until his palm ached. A flood of emotions overwhelmed him. Dizzily his mind reeled, and he could bear to stand still no longer. Frodo jammed Sting back into the scabbard. Then he ran. He did not look back as he tore through the forest, leaving Gollum to the shadows. For a long time he fled, driving his body beyond its limits, his heart heavy with despair. When he finally rested, great distance had been placed between the nightmare and himself. He wept quietly, tightly holding hand clenching Legolas' knife to his breast, as he slumped against a tree. His battered body ached, and his soul was bleeding. What a fool he had been to trust his pity! His ragged breath was so loud in the silence. The peace of the forest seemed false. Tonight he would not sleep again.


	11. A Chance Meeting

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thanks for much for all of the comments and follows and favorites! I really appreciate them all. Well, onward. Enjoy the rest of your holidays!

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER ELEVEN: A CHANCE MEETING**

Through the vast woods of Fangorn rode the twins of Thranduil. Each upon a horse of white, they traveled silently. Even the ancient trees about them, thick and gnarled with time and ivy, were still; rarely did a breeze penetrate the brush to caress the green leaves into singing. It was just as well, though, for words were not needed to convey the tension and yearning of the Elves. Long had they traveled under sun and moon, over the lands of Middle Earth. They had not stopped for rest, and meals had been consumed meagerly in transit. The forest knew of their weariness and their fears as easily as they knew each other's, for this was an old and wise place, and its spirit, keen and comforting, was kin to the love of the Elves.

Aratadarion closed his eyes a moment and listened. His horse plodded onward, a bit behind his brother's, but he did not feel the slight dips and turns of the leafy brown forest floor. Weakly he touched it, but the quiet of the trees seemed to amplify the sensation, and with all his being he lurched forth inside and grabbed the strange sound. Then he cradled it quietly within, and winced at the agony and fear of the weak aura as it hurt his own heart through common blood. He opened his eyes once more and looked ahead. "Legolas is in great pain," he declared quietly. The timid tone of his voice seemed so loud in the heavy silence.

"I know," answered Astaldogald. Though he tried, the Elf could not mask his concern with arrogance, and a shudder crept to proud shoulders.

Aratadarion watched his twin in worry, prodding his mare forward with gentle hands. "Do you suppose-"

"I know not," came the icy response, and Astaldogald shot Aratadarion a sharp glare before looking forward once more. Aratadarion grimaced, the expression shattering the usual peace of his slender face, and looked down. An odd anxiety had come between them, and with every mile they traveled further south it grew deeper and hungrier, devouring smile and song and leaving nothing but a void of humorless conversation and aching hearts. Aratadarion knew what was troubling his twin, for it was easy enough to discern. Even though more than two weeks had passed since they had left their home, Astaldogald still obviously bristled in memory of the sharp words of their father. His damaged ego and wounded heart would be slow to heal, and facing now this arduous trail and monstrous task would do little to mend his spirit. Rarely did the twins speak, for Astaldogald was content to wallow in his anger and sadness, and Aratadarion did not know how to comfort this brother.

Finding their path had not been difficult at all. On boats they had ventured down the Anduin, alternately rowing and resting, following the ancient trail to Lórien marked by Silvan Elves. There they had taken a brief respite. The Lady of the Golden Wood had been expecting their arrival, which did not surprise Aratadarion. A few occasions in the past, before Legolas had been born, the House of Thranduil had visited upon Galadriel and Celeborn during times of peace and war. Though now a distant memory, Aratadarion recalled being amazed at the great city of Lórien and her people. Mostly, though, the Lady of the Golden Wood had enthralled him, for Galadriel was both powerful and beautiful, her face infinitely wise yet ageless as the sun. Her gaze was at once piercing and powerful, yet gentle and calming. She knew much about men, Elves, and Dwarves, of good, evil, and the powers that direct the fate of the trees, the land, the air, and the woods, and she understood heart, soul, and mind with such ease that it was truly belittling to behold.

She sought their audience and the two weary travelers complied gratefully, hoping that she would direct their vigilant search. Indeed she did. With eyes that seemed weary with worry and toil, she told them many disturbing things. She spoke of the fall of Mithrandir into the shadows of Moria and the resting of the broken Fellowship within the borders of Caras Galadhon. Of their youngest brother's plight she said little, understanding that they knew better than she of his pain and clearly not wishing to aggravate the tenuous peace they had. Only she spoke of his capture by Saruman's deranged army of Uruk-hai, who were not threatened by light or life. They had taken him to Isengard and there he was held prisoner deep in Orthanc. The events surrounding the fall of Legolas were left unshared, and though Astaldogald sought answers, Aratadarion knew that the information they wished was not theirs to possess. Their duty was not to the world of men or to the Ring; theirs was to the safety of their kin. The introspective Elf knew that if fate should change their quest, the knowledge would come to them when appropriate. He did not doubt that they would find their way.

Thus refreshed, replenished, and blessed by the Lady Galadriel, they set out once more upon gifts of horses. That had been days before. Unspoken concerns intensified in Aratadarion's heart as they rode now. For hours his worries had grown louder, as the forest of Fangorn became darker and deeper. Its voice had changed from a condoling whisper to a discomforting jabber, which grew more deafening the further they traveled. These woods were troublesome. He had wanted to avoid Fangorn, but it had clearly been the quickest route between Lórien and Isengard. The Elf prince was unnerved by these ancient, gnarled trees, for their spirit was strong and vociferous, and it called to him in a language he did not recognize. He glanced at his twin, but Astaldogald's eyes were distant and clearly preoccupied with private matters. He wondered if Astaldogald acutely sensed the eerie soul of this place as he did. It was not exactly a warning, but neither was it a welcome. Aratadarion sighed quietly. Calm he could not find, not with both the pain of his brother haunting his heart and this strange dissonance. He wished for nothing else than to be rid of Fangorn.

He then chastised himself. Yearning for the uncertain was definitely unwise! Though these lands left him unsettled, surely what was beyond held no relief. What were they to do, he wondered frightfully, when they reached Isengard? What would they find there? How could the two of them alone expect to contend with Saruman's forces? From Galadriel's words it was easy to conclude that the fallen wizard had concocted a great, vile army. Without doubt it would stand between them and their captive brother. Aratadarion winced. Certainly they would fail! Though he despised himself for his pessimistic weakness, he could not help his thoughts. He was no good with a bow or sword. Unlike his brothers, he had no keen eyes for battle and his reflexes were sluggish. If a skirmish erupted, he would only be detrimental to Astaldogald. His father would have done better to send an Elf stronger than he!

But he said nothing of his concerns. Undoubtedly his twin, if he was not too engulfed by his own grievances, sensed his plight. Astaldogald had said nothing to assuage his pain. Thus Aratadarion was left to his own dismay about Fangorn and Isengard, and about Legolas. Truth be told, he was afraid of what had been forced upon his younger brother to make him so loudly and widely radiate his anguish. Legolas, if nothing else, was a proud Elf. Not often had he ever shown weakness or fear, at least before his brothers. Aratadarion could understand why, and no matter how he twisted it, he could not make the reason seem silly. To seem vulnerable before Astaldogald and Vardaithil, the former especially, would cast doubt onto Legolas' attitudes. Weak in body meant weak in mind. Only this view did Legolas share with their father. Aratadarion remembered Legolas' youth clearly. He had been an inquisitive child, interested at every minute detail of every tree and creature. Aratadarion had held a quiet connection with Legolas then, sharing with his brother the many things he had learned and the many things he wished to study. Legolas had been an avid listener. Even now Aratadarion could recall his younger sibling's wide blue eyes, open with admiration and affection. As Legolas had grown, his beliefs began to diverge from those of his brothers, and the soft friendship Aratadarion had shared with him had faded as the division grew. It was then that the youngest son of Thranduil had developed this proud, secluded, strong air, and never again did he allow any of his brothers to detect his sorrow or pain. Distressed, Aratadarion lowered his head. In this he had always faulted himself. He had felt the estrangement festering long before any of the others chose to recognize it. Yet, he had done nothing, torn between the fierce loyalty he constantly held for his twin and the innocent affection he had for Legolas. Had he simply intervened then, before the arguments and hateful words! He could not imagine the way the present might be altered if he could somehow remedy this error of the past. Surely Legolas would not have so drastically turned from a loving child to an independent and cool Elf. Surely he would not have sought solace in the House of Elrond, in the confidence of a mortal. Surely his bitter heart would not have swayed him into participating in this foolish quest. Surely he would not have fallen!

The quiet cries grew louder in his mind, and Aratadarion sighed slowly. He doubted if Legolas would ever again regard him with those big, loving eyes. Friendship lost in a feud between kin was never easily regained.

The old trees swayed in an unexpected breeze, and the discomfort of his mind increased. His mount was skittish, stepping hesitantly, and he laid a comforting hand upon its neck. "This strange feeling grows stronger," he murmured quietly to his twin ahead. Astaldogald slowed his own horse, which was as riled as well. Then he turned to regard his twin. "These woods are most unusual," Aratadarion declared, suddenly feeling sheepish at Astaldogald's scrutinizing gaze.

"You are simply too accustomed to the trees of Mirkwood," remarked the other a bit angrily. "Calm your nerves."

The meek Elf dropped his gaze and said no more despite the swirling agitation within him. Vehemently he forced his thoughts elsewhere, away from the annoying premonitions vexing him. The pain and anxiety of his heart would not easily be brushed aside, though, and as they continued he succumbed again to it.

Hours passed quietly. Then ahead there came a noise. It was not a natural sound of the forest, though to any save an Elf it would appear no more than a rustle of a leaves against the wind and the crack of limb to limb. Aratadarion lifted his head and looked forward keenly, his eyes scanning the dark woods for the source of the sound. It seemed abnormal to his ears, as though made by a force greater than the breeze or simple creature. He reined in his horse and listened.

A great whoosh resounded behind him, and Aratadarion jumped in his saddle in fright and shock. The horse beneath him reared and instinctively he grasped the leather reins tighter to control the startled beast and maintain his seat. In the moment he floundered, his twin drew his long, white sword. This he held high in threat. "Step forward and announce yourself," demanded Astaldogald in a deep voice, "and do so quickly!"

Aratadarion could scarce believe what he saw, for what emerged from the maze of trunk and limb behind them was neither man nor beast. It was a great hulking creature, taller than Elf. Its skin, if it could even be called that, was a strange grayish brown color and was mottled and marked like bark. Ancient eyes regarded them amusedly. Even more amazing than the appearance of such a being was what followed, breaking the silent moment with a deep rumble. "_Hoom! _Elves, I think! My eyes do not deceive me in this! Elves! Hmm?"

The twins shared a short look. Aratadarion had seen two ages of mysteries and magic, and never before had he come upon such an amazing creature. He thought quickly. Lore and myth abruptly became reality. Long ago his people had come to sing of this old and peculiar race in great ballads. They were the Ents, the tree people, beings of the ancient world, of original creation, and in this, kin to Elvenfolk. They were obscure, though, lost in the passage of millennia. Vaguely Aratadarion remembered a fable that spoke of the disappearance of the Ents into the weathered forests of Middle Earth. Never had he dreamed he would come across one!

"Humph!" came again the baritone grumble, and the Ent stepped closer with what could only be described as the creak of wood. "Kindly lower your blade, and I shall ask you a question, for you travel in my forest! Good Elf folk! It has been many years since one of your kind as come to these lands _hoom! _Now, do tell, who are you and why have you come hence?"

Aratadarion was too stunned to speak. He glanced at his twin. Though Astaldogald dropped his sword and returned it to its scabbard with a metallic ring, he clearly did not lower his guard. For a moment neither Elf spoke, both abruptly shocked and perplexed. Aratadarion wondered if his twin was remembering the same folklore. Then Astaldogald seemed to resign himself. "I am Astaldogald of Mirkwood," he announced proudly, his face stern, "and the other is my brother, Aratadarion."

"Mirkwood, hmm?" the Ent repeated. Then he laughed loudly. "That was once a fine, old forest, it was! Tell me, Astaldogald of Mirkwood, how fares it? It has been long since I have left this place!"

The twins again gave each other a curt and confused glance. "It fares well enough," said Astaldogald tentatively. "Come, I have honored your request. Can you not honor mine? It does perplex me to see an Ent, a creature thought to be more legend than substance, before me. What may we call you?"

The Ent smiled, if Ents could do such a thing. "Not only Elves, but Elf children no less!" He gave a grumbling chuckle that, though sounding heavy and deep was unusually light-hearted, and it eased the horses and Aratadarion. Astaldogald seemed rather peeved at the remark about their age, his eyes narrowing, but he wisely chose for once to say nothing. Aratadarion prayed his twin would not anger the Ent. This old being radiated a warm, friendly shine, but he still loathed falling from its good graces. "What may you call me? What may you, indeed!" The Ent seemed to contemplate a moment with a most comical tip of its head. "I have many names, you see. For two Elf children, I shall be Treebeard. Yes, Treebeard is a good name, _hrum!_"

This time Astaldogald could not quell his indignity, and Aratadarion flinched as the harsh words fled his twin's impetuous mouth. "We are not children, Treebeard. Speak kindly, for you address two princes of the Kingdom of the Silvan Elves."

Another amused chuckle reverberated through the still forest. "Elf princes! _Hoom! _Elf children! You are indeed a funny creature, Astaldogald of Mirkwood! Tell me of your father, the king, then. Mayhap once I might have known him."

Astaldogald's expression grew taut in annoyance. "We do not have time for this." He then began to turn, directing his horse back upon their southerly course. Aratadarion winced at the sting in his twin's arrogant tone and hesitated.

"Hold your haste, Astaldogald of Mirkwood, and keep your peace! You must understand, hmm? It has been so long since I have met another, and the Ents here grow so tree-ish, you see. Tree-ish Ents! You would humor me, would you not, Elf prince? Tell me why you are so rushed, if nothing else! _Hoom!_"

Aratadarion did not know what to say, if anything. He doubted it was wise at all to divulge the nature of their quest to such a strange creature. Though he found it unlikely that the Ents had allied themselves with Orthanc, it was not impossible and he did not know enough of them to cast the notion completely aside. Numbly he watched Astaldogald, imploring silently that his twin would have the intuition to make such a decision. Finally Astaldogald spoke. "We travel to Isengard," he declared quietly, almost shamefully.

The reaction in Treebeard was immediate and astounding. The Ent seemed to recoil and Aratadarion thought he saw disgust flash in those great, earthy eyes. "Isengard? Say no more, for I will have naught to do with you."

Astaldogald must have sensed the Ent's disapproval as well, for he was quick to supplement more information to assuage the sudden tension. "We are no friends to Saruman the White. He has taken captive our youngest brother."

Treebeard was silent a moment, as if digesting what they revealed. Then he let out a slow _hoom_, almost like a sigh. Aratadarion watched the queer creature intently. "I see now why you rush." A quiet pain entered his voice. "A great shadow has come to these lands. It is a sour thing that poisons the trees and the rivers. I have smelled it and tasted it. _Hoom! _It is a vile thing!" The Ent seemed vexed and angered, as if this news of Legolas' imprisonment was the final bit of bad fortune that he could tolerate. "Tell me what you know of it, Elf princes. You must, you see, for I have had many occasions in the past to converse with Saruman the Wise. Then he was a kind and judicious creature, if not a bit arrogant and cunning. He knew much even in his youth, and this and more he many a time shared with me when he came upon my forest. What could be so evil as to twist logic into madness? What say you, Elf princes? What do you know of it?"

The twins again shared a glance. What a strange meeting! Aratadarion swallowed uncomfortably, torn by his own curiosity and the press of time upon him. Surely, though, if this great and ancient creature wanted to speak to them, then nothing they might do could deter him, because the Ent was both powerful and intimidating. Astaldogald, despite his irritation, must have had a similar thought, for he began to explain. "We know less than we would like. Our brother, Legolas, was intimately involved in the fight against this shadow of which you speak."

"Legolas?" mused the Ent. "That is a fine Elf name! Legolas… a gift to the trees, surely! The old trees of Mirkwood, fine friends were they…" The Ent trailed off, almost nostalgically, before sighing once more. "Come, Elf princes, and sit. Rest your horses and your hearts. Inform me of everything, if you would."

They did so, Astaldogald, though wary and irked by the lost time, speaking freely of the dire circumstances come to Middle Earth. To the Ent they told what they had learned from Galadriel about the flight of the Ring to Mordor, about the cracking of its Fellowship, and about the fall of Mithrandir. Upon hearing this Treebeard's eyes flashed in first anger and then sorrow. "Gandalf lost?" he repeated incredulously. "Gandalf lost? Oh, but for all the good of Middle Earth such a thing should never come to pass!"

"We know not the circumstances of it," said Astaldogald. The nimble Elf sat upon a patch of mossy earth cross-legged. "The Lady of the Golden Wood would not say what felled him."

The Ent glumly remarked, "She is both wise and powerful. If she has seen it, it must be true! _Hoom!_" Aratadarion bowed his head and closed his eyes. "Such a great creature was Gandalf. A blasphemous curse this is! For many years we Ents have had occasion to speak with him. He was a kind Ent-friend!"

"As he was to the Kingdom of Mirkwood," Astaldogald added softly. "Many an Elf has been eased by the intelligent words of Mithrandir." Aratadarion glanced upon his twin and saw something that not often appeared upon the other. His brother seemed almost crestfallen, as though he pained for a creature of different making. "It was he who led the Nine Walkers. It was his strength that directed them. Our brother held him in the highest of esteems."

"Yes, hmmm, yes," mused Treebeard, "and I will not sit idly by any longer." The massive creature towered over the twins, his shadow dark and cool, and Aratadarion gazed upon him in awe. "Ents have grown tree-ish, tree-ish, you see, and that is a bad thing. _Hoom! _Maybe this will be call enough to bring energy to ward away their lethargy!"

"Tree-ish?" Aratadarion softly questioned. The Ent had mentioned it before, but the term was still shrouded in confusion.

The creature grinned. It was grotesquely fascinating sight. "Ah, so the quiet Elf does speak! You are a meek one, Aratadarion of Mirkwood, but you are fair and compassionate. Gladly I will explain for you. We are old, we Ents, and many of us have grown weary of this world, hmm. Long ago, as you Elves sing, the Ent-wives disappeared. We searched everywhere, all across this land, for the Ent-wives, you see, but never again did we meet them. Since many of us have grown slow and rigid, tree-ish, hmm?" Treebeard's tone grew deep and tight. "Saruman shall pay for what he has done to us. Breathe the air, Elf children? _Hoom! _What do you smell?"

For a moment, Aratadarion did nothing but concentrate on his senses as he inhaled deeply. He shoved aside the worry and doubt clouding his mind, and in doing so, became aware of peculiar yet rank odor. His brow furrowed in confusion as he looked back to the Ent. The quiet breeze that picked its way through the maze of Fangorn held tidings of a rotten deed. It turned his stomach. Treebeard regarded him with knowing but angry eyes. "Yes, little Elf. You sense what I speak. For many moons has that stench poisoned our forest. Saruman is contaminating all the lands of Isengard with his evil. Many tree-friends have died. I dare say some tree-ish Ents may have perished as well, but of that I cannot be sure."

"What has he done?" Astaldogald asked, his piercing gaze narrowed angrily. He too seemed unnerved by what he smelled. "The Lady Galadriel spoke of a vicious army of man-Orcs that he bred."

"That surely and more, Astaldogald of Mirkwood," stated Treebeard, "for the winds are sour and the water is fetid. The corruption of his wisdom has spread to his lands, and this I cannot longer tolerate." The massive Ent again seemed to release a slow breath that smelled of moss and morning dew. When he exhaled, the force of it ruffled the twins' hair. "I thought before that I could ignore, _hoom! _What can one Ent do, after all? Even as one as old as I? But Gandalf lost… and your brother imprisoned. An Elf child in such darkness! These treacheries I cannot overlook!"

They were silent a moment, and the forest was alive in Treebeard's anger. Limbs smacked against each other, and the leaves screamed. Aratadarion glanced at his brother, awed by the creature before them, and uncertain of what now lay before them. "You would help us?" he asked quietly and mildly, afraid that his words would prove false and that the Ent would be insulted by such a suggestion.

The great being gave a grave smile. "That I will, Aratadarion of Mirkwood, for we share a common enemy. And it was the Elves after all that brought the gift of language to we Ents, hmm? The tree and the Elf are not so distant." Treebeard looked thoughtful, unhurried and certainly unconcerned. "But first we must hold a meeting." Then the great creature waddled and began to walk back to where they had come.

"A meeting?" Astaldogald repeated incredulously, standing quickly. Aratadarion cringed inwardly at his twin's irritated tone. He prayed the Ent would take no offense, for they would of course need assistance. They alone would never be able to defeat Saruman's forces within their black territory! "Our brother weakens, and we cannot fail. Our father forbade it!"

"Hmm?" Treebeard grunted, turning to face the impatient Elf. "You certainly are a hasty Elf, Astaldogald of Mirkwood!" He gave a hearty chuckle that sounded like acorns falling. "Elves are fleet-footed, but we Ents are not, you see, and you cannot cure the poison of Isengard with simple brotherly affection." Astaldogald fumed but said nothing more, much to his twin's relief. "Legolas Elf child has the strength of the trees within him, and that is potent indeed. Now come, I will rally the others. In this they may again feel alive! _Hrum hoom!_" Then he pivoted once more, and began to amble slowly, mumbling about tree-ish Ents and Ent-wives, the words becoming slurred and foreign.

Aratadarion looked to his twin. Astaldogald stood erect, his fist wrapped tightly about the reins of his mount. He looked stiff and angered, as though thoroughly vexed by this delay. He muttered something indiscernible through clenched teeth before pulling his horse to him and darkly stalking after the retreating form of the Ent. Aratadarion could not understand him. Surely he must care for Legolas; their blood was not yet so thin as to hold nothing but disgust and contempt. Yet his actions spoke not of love but of anger and annoyance, as though this task appointed to them was no greater than a mundane chore, as though he was fighting for their father's approval and not for Legolas' well being. The thought chilled Aratadarion, and in the cold wake came again their lost brother's soft pleas.

The fair Elf shuddered before steeling himself and following.

* * *

><p>Things had not gone well for Aragorn. A week or so had passed since the battle upon the ruins of Helm's Deep. It had seemed a great time, each day more sluggish than the last, and his patience was fraying. The ranger counted himself a tolerant and coolly mannered man, for tracking demanded serenity of heart and mind, and frustration hindered the senses. Years of practice had honed his skills, and he had grown to be the master of his temper. As the hours dragged onward infinitely and the army of Rohan lingered in a strange suspension of indecision, he felt that control fade. This wait he could not bear.<p>

Truly this was exasperating. The reason for the delay was clear to the ranger. The army of Rohan was leaderless. When Théoden had fallen, they had lost their drive as well as their commander. He could sympathize with the situation. The confusion and chaos of the battle had left many lost and wounded. Worse still, Erkenbrand and Éomer were in contention over the direction of the troops. Théoden had died so suddenly and so unrepentantly that no provisions had been made to decide such an argument, and the feud was somewhat livid. Even this he could understand. Éomer was kin to the king, but relatively inexperienced in the ways of ruling. Erkenbrand was an imposing and powerful soldier as well as the liege's most trusted lord. This as well was a pivotal moment. A great choice faced the men of Rohan. From Helm's Deep they might continue upon their attack and chase the Uruk-hai back to Isengard. This tactic was risky, for they did not know what dangers Isengard could house. They had not had the good fortune to defeat all the Uruk-hai; more would certainly guard Saruman's fortress. If they advanced, it could mean their destruction. Yet if they did not, a potentially serious victory would be lost. Beating Saruman's forces now would be an undeniable advantage.

In this two the lords of Rohan differed. Éomer insisted that they charge onward and finish what they had started. This would define the righteous stance of Rohan like nothing else could. The evil they faced was terrible, and it could not be allowed to endure. Aragorn suspected that Éomer's respect for the ranger had as well factored into his stance. This at least heartened the heir of Isildur, and he felt a good ally in the Third Marshall of the Mark. Erkenbrand was of the opposite opinion. With the king murdered, their first duty was to the people of Rohan, not to their vengeful hearts. The only obvious option was to return to Edoras where Théoden could be properly mourned and a new king rightly crowned. As well, if they had significantly damaged the Uruk-hai army, another attack directed at the city was a likely retaliation. Without the soldiers of Rohan, the innocent people both in Edoras and hiding in the adjacent hills would be defenseless.

These were the stances of the lords, and they were like night and day. Neither was illogical and both were pressing. Since neither position could be dismissed, the army of Rohan remained in a state of hesitation. This more than anything bothered Aragorn. He could not interfere in the workings of Rohan; it was not his kingdom to command, and this decision, whatever it may be, would undoubtedly shape the fate of the nation of the Rohirrim. When the empty days had begun to press on his distressed heart, he found himself wishing firmly that he might have the gall to make the choice for them. Time wasted would not benefit Legolas.

Still they tarried and on this night the ranger sat under the stars. His eyes were blankly trained upon the lapping flames of the fire of their camp, watching numbly as it hungrily devoured the wood. Beside him sat Gimli. The Dwarf's face was dark, his great mass of hair and beard falling upon dirtied chain mail. He puffed contemplatively on his pipe, sending plumes of gray smoke bursting up before they were scattered from being by the breeze. "It is calm tonight," the Dwarf declared quietly.

Aragorn looked up. The night was clear, the sky cloudless, and the light of countless stars created a breath taking mural of timeless beauty. For a moment he simply watched each twinkle. The air was clean, cool, and fresh. Days had swept the unpleasant aroma of death and fire from the fields and rocks. He breathed deeply and tried to relax. The stars offered him peace, but he could not take it.

He would not deny the reason for his rush. His heart bled with worry. What Boromir had told them was disturbing and relieving at once. If Saruman did not have the Ring, that meant Sam, wherever he may be, without a doubt now carried it. Though he worried for the Hobbit, he was glad that the Ring had, by some trick of fate, fallen into Sam's dependable hands. It was a strange thing when he considered it. Frodo's destiny was bound that Ring, it seemed. By searching for Sam, he was seeking the lost burden. How unusual the way things worked! A moment of treachery had scorned them, yet fate inevitably righted herself. With this thought Aragorn's concern for Frodo abated. When the friends reunited, their strength would see the Ring to its destruction, for the bonds of brotherhood were a tough substance for even evil to break.

Where Boromir's news released him from his fear for Frodo, it greatly intensified the terror that plagued him for Legolas. Now the sick twist of fortune became clear to him. He grieved for the choice his dear friend had obviously made. Sacrifice made for the sake of many was often more painful than any other, and Legolas had offered himself to the dark willingly to protect Sam. It was achingly clear, and Aragorn felt every part of his being clench in agony. He had failed in what he had promised to both Legolas and Frodo. He had guarded neither, and both suffered. What a sad creature he was! All he could hope to do now was somehow free Legolas. The Uruk-hai would not be kind to the Elf. Saruman would surely torture him for the Ring's location. The thought made the ranger grimace inwardly. He knew Legolas well. The Elf prince was noble and strong, but proud and stubborn. He would not easily submit. Aragorn could not bear to fathom the lengths to which Saruman might go to learn what he wanted. Still, there was some grotesque relief to be found in this. As long as Legolas held tightly to his secret, he was of value to them, and they would not kill him. As much as it pained him, he knew that a few weeks of torture, though vile and sickening, would not be enough to break an Elf, least of all one so powerful as Legolas. He would endure. And if Aragorn were fast enough, he would yet free his friend and repay a promise broken.

Still he said nothing to Gimli's comment. He knew in recent days he had become a cold, driving force, restless and short of temper. This he could not help; waiting here was madness to him!

Haldir stood beside them, his arms folded across his chest. His eyes were narrowed as he looked north. "The serenity I think is a façade. Something is in the air. A great change is coming to the forest. I know no more of it, though, only that fighting it will be fruitless." The breeze brushed by them, blowing Haldir's pale hair gently. He turned and looked to Aragorn. "You know what I would say, son of Arathorn, and I know you wish not to hear it."

The ranger's jaw tightened but he did not answer. Indeed he did understand, all too well, in fact. The only of his companions that had had the bravery to question his decision to march to Isengard had been Haldir. The Elf was adamant in the task bestowed upon him by Galadriel, and he had vehemently reminded Aragorn that fate called him to duties in Minas Tirith. Legolas' future, as he repeatedly stated, was not theirs to change. Aragorn had pointedly ignored him. Haldir was aggravating, but what truly irked the ranger was the truth behind the Lórien archer's words. Galadriel had laid upon him a greater purpose, and that he was selfishly ignoring. His guilty and angry heart could not bear to hear Haldir's arrogant reprimands again.

Surprisingly it had been Gimli that had convinced him to wait for the decision of the army. After it became clear that the leaderless group would linger, it was the Dwarf's logic that stayed his panicked heart. They alone would never be able to infiltrate Isengard. As much as it angered Aragorn, to be successful they would need the support of the Rohan forces. Curse this vile helplessness!

"He looks cold." Aragorn directed his attention to the concerned voice. Wrapped in blankets and sitting close to the fire were Merry and Pippin. The two small creatures sat huddled, each wearing an expression of forlorn exhaustion. They looked lost and hurt, the yellow light of the fire glowing in their crestfallen eyes. He knew clearly what troubled them. Boromir's return had stomped out their carefree banter. Their betrayer, without regard or reason, had reappeared and demanded redemption. It had almost become an unspoken law. No one spoke of Boromir. No one had confronted him. Aragorn dragged his gaze pointedly to where the traitor slept with his back to them. As it had been for days, Boromir kept his distance. A great wall had come up between them, dividing him from the Fellowship, and its bricks and stones were tough with festering hate and unshed tears. Once or twice, Aragorn had caught his wistful glances directed at the Hobbits. The man from Gondor was obviously searching for acceptance and forgiveness. Aragorn would not allow it.

Boromir was shivering. "We should give him a blanket," declared Pippin. Aragorn gritted his teeth and looked away, hating himself for the sympathy he felt crawling back into his heart.

The Hobbit made to stand, but Merry was quick to grab his arm to stop him. "No." The Hobbit's open face was uncharacteristically taut and angry.

Pippin swallowed uncomfortably and glanced around the group. Hard expressions of anger met his eyes, and he sank back down slowly. After a silent moment, Pippin sheepishly lifted his gaze and met the ranger's. The subject of which he wished to speak was clear, and Aragorn steeled himself with his anger. Quietly Pippin said, "I don't understand how he could do such a thing."

Merry turned, snapping from a reverie to regard his cousin. His blank expression became angry. "Don't even bother, Pip. It's not something that's worth understanding."

"But-"

"He's not one of us anymore," Merry declared coolly. Aragorn did not miss the waver of the young one's voice. The ranger looked down. The words seemed rough and wrong, and it hurt to hear them, despite his anger.

Gimli grunted and then stood. The stout warrior dumped the ash of his pipe into the fire. "Do not trouble yourself with guilt, young Master Took," rumbled the Dwarf. Harsh, beady eyes looked to the figure of Boromir. "It is his to bear alone, and he will."

Pippin did not seem convinced, his inner conflict plain on his face. It mirrored Aragorn's own heart. Then they grew quiet again. The army was still this night. The wounded had been moved into Hornburg, where they would be nursed safely. Corpses had been piled high and burned days ago, and the rocks and fields were now free from the debris of battle. The army lazed tiredly, still recovering from the strenuous fight. A shroud of exhaustion not easily lifted had descended upon them, and it was entirely disagreeable to Aragorn's impatience.

The silence became unbearable. Then Pippin's voice again shattered the quiet. "Will you sing, Haldir?" The Hobbit took a deep breath and looked upward. "The sky's pretty tonight, and I miss hearing a good song."

Frigidly the Lórien archer turned to the Hobbit. The ice of Haldir's glare caused Pippin to meekly shrink closer to his cousin. "Elf songs are not a matter for request. Furthermore, given the state of things, a song would be most inappropriate."

Gimli grunted hotly. The tension between he and Haldir had not dissipated in this last week. "Fool Elf," said the Dwarf, refilling his pipe. "Legolas oft sang when the little ones asked it of him. Though I care not for such things, even I was moved by his clear and peaceful voice. Surely you could bring yourself to do the same."

Aragorn grinned feebly despite himself. Haldir bristled icily. "I am not Legolas, Dwarf. I would ask you to remember that." Gimli huffed. "He is a Silvan Elf, a woodland creature, and they are too taken by emotion. Their songs are silly and trite. I would not voice them."

Merry laughed. "Would not or cannot, Haldir? You are a funny one! You are so selfless, cold, and composed! I doubt you could sing a merry tale like Legolas!"

"Mind yourself, little Hobbit." A strange thing happened, though. A bit of rose had colored Haldir's pale face. Even in the sparse illumination, it was visible. The Elf was blushing.

Pippin chuckled as well, his pain over Boromir before forgotten. "You can't sing, can you?" he asked incredulously. Haldir grunted and stepped away, folding his arms across his chest, and tightening his stature. "An Elf that can't sing! Can you believe it?"

Aragorn swallowed his laugh, sensing Haldir's discomfort. The others were giggling, and Gimli belted out a deep guffaw. "Friends, do not poke fun of another's shortcoming," he chided gently, and he found his tone surprisingly light.

"It is no shortcoming!" snapped Haldir, turning to face them. His face was becoming a deeper red, which only spurred more laughter from the group.

Gimli shook his head, "Sing, then, you crazy Elf! Show us the minstrel you can be!"

Haldir glowered a moment and all grew still. The fire cracked and popped, and the others regarded the Elf expectantly. Then, quietly, the Lórien Elf began to resignedly sing. The tune was meek and mellow. Merry and Pippin laughed harder at the Elf's quivering voice.

"Hush," ordered Aragorn tenderly. Mirth had again found its way into the ranger's eyes. "Let us hear the Elf song."

And so they listened. Haldir's melody was uncertain, and his voice held none of the friendly enchantment that Legolas' possessed. Yet the song was calming, the notes and lyrics as sweet and clean as the cool breeze, and it eased them all. Over the camp it sped, offering hearts a quiet release and minds a promising escape. Aragorn closed his eyes. For a moment at least, he could forget.

The sound of Haldir's voice lulled them. Had any of them paid their attention, they might have noticed the silent sobs wracking the distant body of Boromir. As it was, though, for the Fellowship, there was only the song of the Elf.

* * *

><p>A decision was finally made, and action was taken. A day later Éomer and Erkenbrand reached a sort of compromise. The latter would remain at Helm's Deep with the wounded and, with his forces, would bar any advance of the Uruk-hai towards Edoras. Éomer decided to press forward, leading what remained of King Théoden's men to Isengard. With him gladly went Aragorn and his companions. Much to the ranger's dismay, Boromir accompanied them as well. The silent and forlorn warrior refused to stay. Like a lost dog, he followed the Fellowship, trailing them in a desperately furious attempt to help them. He disgusted Aragorn.<p>

On the dawn they left Helm's Deep. For four days they marched. It was slower than Aragorn liked, for the army was weary and though diminished was still considerable. Moving so many armored, tired men was a slow and arduous task. Every moment needled the ranger. It was one more that Legolas spent suffering. It was one less he could use to free his friend. He was chained to his anger, to his worry, and to his anxiety. He was a slave to the time he felt slip away. The ranger was exhausted, emotionally and physically. The terror he felt for Legolas pounded in his heart, making him feel dizzy and sick. But he would not rest. Now was not the time.

So he pushed onward. Every step closer to Isengard tortured his mind with vicious and violent premonitions. The logic that he had but a few days prior forced himself to believe now seemed ridiculous. What did he know of Saruman's black ways? Surely the fallen wizard would know how to crush the will of an Elf! He imagined his poor friend, beaten and bruised, lost in the night. Legolas so thrived in the sun and woods; he would not retain his strength long in the black of Orthanc, and so many days had already passed. What if the Elf had been broken? Aragorn shuddered to consider it, but he could not stop himself. Saruman would waste no time hunting down Sam. And Legolas he would kill without second regard. The ranger's panic was consuming. His expectations were so sinister and bleak that they crushed his soul like a vice, and he could do nothing to stop his worrying. It grew so intense that it hurt to think or breathe, and he wanted to run. It took all his will to stay in place.

He led Hasufel forward. The great horse sensed his rush, his feet light and quick. At Aragorn's right sat Merry and Pippin upon the pony they had been given. Each was ashen and silent with the gravity of what lay before them. Beside them walked Arod with Haldir and Gimli mounting him. The emptiness was thick, the tension heavy and powerful. Each was anticipating the worst. Words were not shared. The mood was grave and somber. At Isengard they would face the Uruk-hai once more, and one way or another, this nightmare would conclude itself.

Boromir walked close to Éomer. His head was bowed, his lips compressed tightly into a thin line, his hand clenched tightly about his blade's hilt. His face was a mystery, his expression unreadable and closed. Aragorn cursed him whenever the son of Gondor trespassed upon his sight or thought. If not for that man's sick corruption, Legolas would be safe! _He will be yet,_ Aragorn assured himself strongly and angrily, _for I will not fail in this!_

Then they came to Isengard. It was not at all what they expected.

The once magical and imperial forests surrounding Orthanc were gone, razed to the ground, leaving gray earth scarred by drought and heat. The army stood upon a precipice overlooking the land below, astonished. Not only the destruction of the forest was disturbing. Littering the perimeter of Orthanc were bodies of Uruk-hai. The dry ground was washed in blood. For miles the carnage stretched, lining a path to the foot of the black and mighty tower. A last defense had obviously floundered at the base of the structure, for there a great pile of dead Orcs baking in the midday sun.

Stranger still was what circled Orthanc. A line of trees, thicker than a grove, remained around the base, as though surrounding and guarding it. It was a peculiar thing, these leave-less trunks, and it stunned the men.

"We advance," called Éomer after a moment, "yet carefully. Be on guard!"

Aragorn dismounted gracefully and grabbed Hasufel's reins and began to walk. The horse was a bit nervous as if unnerved by the surreal and bizarre scene. The ranger felt the same inside. As they walked, his inquisitive eyes scanned everything. So many Uruk-hai were dead. A veritable slaughter had occurred, but there were no signs of weapons or an army. What sort of force had done this? Uneasiness bubbled inside him like mud.

"Seems like someone beat us to the catch," murmured a stupefied Pippin, his hands tightly wrapped in the reins of his mount. Merry smacked him across the back of the head, effectively silencing him.

The troops walked slowly and cautiously down the path, watchful of the bodies about them as though at any moment this seemingly destroyed enemy would rise from the dead to again threaten them. Weapons were held tightly, poised to strike. Aragorn's stray hand clenched Andúril's warm hilt. "Was this the state of things when you came hence, Boromir?" demanded the ranger hotly.

Boromir shook his head, the blade of Gondor tightly clenched in his hands. "Nay," said the warrior softly, his tone confused and exasperated. He did not look at Aragorn, his wary eyes centered upon the black tower. He seemed haunted. "Their forces were great. It was here Saruman bred his army."

Ahead was a destroyed statue. For a moment Aragorn analyzed it, struggling to make sense of its strange forms. It was a white stone, but its tops were broken. Only when they passed could he see the ruined fragments. Long, narrow cylinders tipped red with blood. Fingertips. The white hand of Saruman. Some great force had smashed rock into dust.

The trees were near now. The army drew to a stop in shock. These were no trees at all, but creatures of some sort. They stood tall, looming over the soldiers, their skin rough and speckled. One turned slowly to face them and began to make a deep noise. The rumble shook through them and, startled, the army took up the defensive. Weapons were raised and arrows were notched on tight bowstrings. Aragorn felt his heart thunder in confused panic as he drew Andúril. What were these creatures?

The trees turned and neared. From their ranks then came a most peculiar thing. Two Elves stepped through them. "Who are you?" demanded one of lighter complexion, his bow held ready to shoot. The other stayed behind, meekly clenching a long white sword.

Silence. Thoroughly perplexed, Aragorn quickly scanned them. Then his heart stopped. The colors of Mirkwood. Frantically he looked to their faces. Surely, it was so! His eyes did not deceive him! "Son of Éomund, request of your men to stand down. This is no threat," the ranger declared quickly.

Éomer regarded him as though his was jesting, his face a bit vexed and very confused. It must have been a strange thing to him, Aragorn realized idly, for his new acquaintances seemed to meet lost comrades so often! But whatever he wanted to say was lost. "Son of Arathorn," spoke the first Elf, recognition glinting his piercing eyes. The dangerous bow was slowly lowered. "Strange indeed to meet you here. Our quests must be the same." He narrowed his icy eyes. "Legolas is gone."

Cold terror washed over Aragorn, and the ranger felt he might collapse as his weak heart thundered in pain. Gone? A million questions stampeded through his dazed mind. Numbly his lips moved. "It cannot be," he whispered despondently. Hot fury replaced the debilitating chill. He wanted to scream his frustration. "We cannot be too late!"

"We are. Saruman has fled." A cold empty moment passed. The heavy, horrible fault lay upon him. "Tell me, _Estel_," Astaldogald sneered, "was it you that allowed our brother to fall into the shadow?"

Silence. So many eyes were upon him. He felt Haldir's condescending gaze scrutinizing him as if to proclaim righteousness. Merry and Pippin, both dumbfounded and lost, imploring him with a wistful yearning to make things right. Boromir's glare, his corruption wretched and foul. Gimli's angry vengeance dug into him as the Dwarf watched him. The fierce and accusing glower of the Elf before him. So many eyes! Curse this all! He did not know any more than they what to do! _I am no leader!_

Rage flashed, burning him inside, and he shouted in frustration. His composure cracked. Andúril glinted in the midday sun, swinging in an arc of silver before coming to slam loudly into the cracked palm of the destroyed statue behind them. The blade sliced rock in his powerful fury, sliding in to the hilt.

The stillness was deafening. Shocked gazes surrounded him, crushing him, suffocating him. Aragorn clasped his hands tightly about the hilt of his blade and collapsed weakly against the rock. He could not fight anymore. The sun was so hot and he was so tired, so very worn. The failures of his heart and body became too much. How could they be too late? How could he have let this happen? To be so close, to have within his reach the redemption he sought and then lose it… Cold tears silently fled his eyes. _I am so sorry, Legolas. I am so very sorry!_

But he said nothing. His moment of weakness disappeared quickly and he released a slow breath. Stiffly Aragorn stood. He looked not to the others, at once ashamed and livid with anger. Andúril he yanked from the rock and slid back into his scabbard. A dark gash now marked the palm of the white hand.

Dusty fingers wiped the wetness from his cheeks, smearing dirt upon his face. Silently he turned and walked away. Let them wonder at his display, he decided bitterly. _Let them do as they will. I care not. If fate will forsake me, then I shall forsake it!_

Numbly they watched the dark ranger stalk away from them. So many concerned eyes, yet none that would understand! The shadow of a lost brother, the shade of a crushing guilt, clung to him like a ghost. With it, melding black into light and lies into truth, was the weight of his dark legacy. This was the heir of Isildur. This was the lost king of Gondor.

This was the last hope of men. _Estel. _ A pitiful joke!

Aragorn did not look back. He needed to be alone.


	12. Joining and Parting

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER TWELVE: JOINING AND PARTING**

The woods of Amon Hen were much as he remembered them. It seemed like a great deal had happened since he had last come upon this forest, but the trees showed no sign of it, as though ignorant of the lasting disaster that had started among them. Frodo counted them blessed for that. They did not know the distress or pain. They could not feel the heartache. They did not mourn. They were gloriously oblivious, completely static and unchanged, and no scar had been left upon them by the horrible happenings. It made this sick nightmare seem so much more unreal.

The small Hobbit walked carefully through the woods. Each tree looked the same as the last in this maze, and he was certain he was lost. This forest was thick and confusing; there were no clear paths to guide his feet, and he felt he had wasted the earlier part of the day wandering aimlessly. He was beginning to lose hope as well that Sam was hiding among the trees. So much time had passed since they had been separated and Frodo began to doubt that his friend would have remained in this frightening place. He had looked vigilantly for the other, searching behind thrush and trunk, in gorge and behind rocks, for signs of Sam. He had found nothing. He knew little of tracking and had never counted himself overly observant or intelligent, and his pessimism was beginning to take hold of him. Perhaps Sam had left these lands days before. Perhaps he had been hurt during the skirmish and was too weak to move. Perhaps…

He banished those thoughts. Frustrated tears were stinging his eyes, but he blinked them away. It was the lack of any sign of the fight that most concerned him. The eerie stillness of these woods troubled him as it had when they had first come to it. Memories of the struggle with Boromir forever stabbed at his resolve. He hated this place; it made him feel weak and powerless, and the trees still held this powerful promise of darkness. Frodo closed his eyes and took a deep breath. This was no place to lose his calm; he would need every bit of strength and endurance he had to find Sam.

He picked his way down a gentle hill, dry leaves cracking loudly beneath his light feet. Logic had prevailed over desperation some hours before, and he had decided to continue east. Surely Sam, he believed, would have tried to find the ramshackle camp the Fellowship had made upon the bank of the Anduin. His skeptical mind irritatingly continued to remind him that that would have been many days past, and it was extremely unlikely his friend would have remained in one place. Still, it was a good enough place to start. Unwittingly he hoped that Sam had left some clue, some hint as to his direction, at the camp. The assumptions that Frodo made bothered him; in truth he knew nothing, only that this horrible land was a foul and wretched reminder of what had happened.

As he walked, he tried to divert his thoughts from the painful sense of Amon Hen and keep the memories at bay. Yet as he hummed to himself a sweet Shire tune of old, his concerns fluttered about his mind relentlessly. It had become achingly clear to him the day before that Gollum had not been deterred from his pursuit by the blow Frodo had dealt to him. The strange ghoul had lingered outside the camp the small Hobbit had prepared the night before, dancing about the bushes on jumping feet, those sick, hungry eyes devouring him. He had not slept last night, terrified that if he let down his guard, Gollum would again insanely attack him. This morning he had noticed the creature trailing him, forever keeping his distance yet dogging Frodo's every moment. The entire situation aggravated and angered the Hobbit. He despised Gollum more with each dark thought that slithered through his mind. What did the demon want with him? He no longer had the Ring, and nothing he could or would do might change that fact. Still Gollum seemed bent upon following Frodo to the Anduin. Furiously Frodo supposed that Gollum hoped that he would find a way to ford the river, thus solving the beast's problem and ferrying him to the other side so he might continue his twisted little quest. Frodo had no intention of crossing the Anduin unless the situation without a doubt forced him to do such.

If he could find where Aragorn had hidden the boats, he might be able to follow Sam to the eastern shore. _Only if that is where he went,_ he thought doubtfully. But this all seemed a distant and trivial concern. He could not find the camp. The sun was more or less directly overhead, its streaks and beams splicing through the holes in the luscious canopy and splattering upon the leafy floor. It offered him little means of way finding, and he was uncertain if he had inadvertently turned himself around. Trunks meshed with trunks, limbs became adjacent branches, and green covered everything. Oh, how he wished he were a bit smarter at such things! This maze made him daft!

Discouraged he stopped walking. The woods were quiet, and he did not like the stillness. Frodo released a slow breath and turned in a circle, his quick eyes glancing about frantically, hoping that some feature would strike him as familiar. Nothing did. Battling a sob once again, he sank unceremoniously to the ground.

After a moment, he managed to calm himself. Panic and melancholy would do him no good here. He had left Aragorn's protection with the intention of caring for himself. He was neither dumb nor dependent. He could and would find his way.

But he needed to think this through, and carefully, for losing his bearings more would undoubtedly complicate matters. The land here was unmarred by the fight that had transpired so many days before. Surely there would be some sign of the struggle: the body of an Orc, trampled leaves or broken branches, or battle debris. Yet here the forest was clean and undisturbed. Either he had still some way to go, or he had turned himself in the wrong manner. He looked up at the sun and winced as the blaring light encapsulated him. Yes, it surely was midday, for the rays were hot and directly overhead. Mayhap the best course of action would be now to wait for the sun to move in its track and distinguish east from west. Frodo pondered a moment, blankly staring at the ground as he did. The option undeniably had merit, but the warning in his heart dissuaded him. If here he should tarry, he would lose whatever ground he had gained on Gollum, and the other would come upon him.

Frodo shuddered as his cut arm began to throb anew. He had been unable to rid himself of the dreadful sight of those soulless eyes observing him with an insane hunger. He despised Gollum for his weakness and corruption. More than once he had pitied himself, wondering why it should be so that he must contend with the demonic creature. Would this be the bane of his journey?

At that thought, the words of old Bilbo came to him. _"Things are only as troublesome as you allow them to be, my boy. Why have your heart burden you when the world alone can do so more than enough?"_ Frodo smiled thinly, but the advice brought a new idea to his wearied mind. He recalled again what Gandalf had said about Gollum, that the dark being, though sick and twisted, had yet some important part to play in the way of things. This new solution to his problem he found emotionally disagreeable but certainly plausible. He might purposefully wait for Gollum to catch him up.

It was an intriguing and disturbing thought. Though he loathed contact with Gollum, the creature had one secure advantage that he did not: Gollum had been to the sight of the battle. He had found Legolas' lost knife, which Frodo now clenched tightly in his fist. The Hobbit had kept the weapon close to him as he had traveled, for it brought him a strange sense of comfort, as if the Elf's spirit had somehow been engrained into the flawless blade and was protecting and guiding him. He frowned, absently digging a hole into the soil with the white tip of the knife. Gollum surely knew the whereabouts of the tragic battle. From there, Frodo was reasonably sure he could find their abandoned camp. He poked deeper into the dirt. Certainly it would not be too dangerous to use Gollum as such. Though he was unsure the extremes to which the creature might go to find the Ring, Frodo had disarmed him. If the Hobbit manipulated Gollum's lust, he could trick him into finding the camp for him.

He was disgusted by the idea, but he could not dismiss it. He was not the sort of person to use another, even one so low and pitiful as Gollum. Yet his anger gave him strength. Why should he not? Finding Sam was more important that sympathizing with the creature. He grew anxious at the thought and had to force himself to cease his fidgeting. This would be his action, then. Frodo took a deep breath to calm his riled nerves and began to wait.

Sure enough, not more than an hour later the black, emaciated form of Gollum he spotted creeping through the shadows of the dark trunks. He narrowed his eyes as the creature slinked closer, sliding across the leaves, muttering to himself. When Gollum came near, Frodo gripped the Elven knife tighter and stood slowly. He swallowed uncomfortably as his heart pounded, the memory of that demon lurching from the bush and trying to stab him fresh once more. "Come no closer, Gollum."

The creature halted, obviously seeing the long knife glinting dangerously in the bright sun. He crouched upon the leaves. "Good Hobbit. Kind Hobbit. Do not slay us, _gollum!_" he hissed, those wide, green eyes flicking open and shut quickly. "We are sorry, we are! Sorry to attack the Hobbit! Bright Elf knife yours now! Please do not kill Sméagol!"

Frodo gritted his teeth, every muscle in his small frame taut. "I will not," he began firmly, forcing bravado into his tone, "if you help me."

"Help the Hobbit?" Gollum's voice dripped a sick satisfaction, as though he were a merchant that had finally convinced a client into to paying a large sum for an object of little value. "Help you, we can! What help?"

It seemed so preposterous. Asking Gollum for assistance! Would these strange events never end? "I lost my friend in these woods. There was a great battle."

"Great battle, yes!" Gollum said, slithering closer. Frodo stepped back instinctively, narrowing his eyes dangerously and threatening the creature with the knife. Immediately Gollum stopped his skulking and regarded him with envious eyes. "Great battle! Bright, horrible Elf fell! Elf lost his knife!"

Inside Frodo's heart clenched in dry agony. His anger was enough to keep the depression borne from the mention of Legolas' defeat at bay. "Yes, a battle. I want you to take me to where it was. You know, don't you? It must be where you found this blade." He tipped the knife closer to Gollum apprehensively, not trusting the creature to hold it yet wanting to make it clear to what he was referring. "Do you remember where?"

Gollum grinned. It was an ugly, unsettling thing to see, and it sent shivers racing up and down Frodo's spine. "That we may, _gollum! _What would you give to Sméagol for his help, hmm? What, kind Hobbit?"

What indeed! Frodo felt a horrible conflict split him. Although he felt nothing but spite towards the scheming, cowardly demon, he could not bring himself to become blinded by his hate. The contradiction of rage and pity in his heart forced a promise from his mouth that he wished immediately to rescind. "If we can find the camp used by my friends, I will help you get across the river." The creature squealed in glee. The sound made Frodo nauseous. "Only if we can find the camp. And once we reach the other side, we part company, understand? You chase after that infernal Ring if it pleases you! I'll have naught to do with it!"

"We thank you, good Hobbit! We thank you, _gollum!_"

"Do not attack me again, Gollum," Frodo warned as the creature stepped around him. "I daresay all the pity of the world will not stay _my_ hand if you unwisely do!"

Gollum screeched and squealed, but skittered forward. "Follow us, good Hobbit! Sméagol knows the way! Follow us! Follow, _gollum!_"

Frodo did carefully, never lowering his guard and eyeing the back of the creature warily. Gollum moved with unusual speed and grace, bounding quickly over the ruts and hollows of the forest, narrowly avoiding trunk and limb. Frodo had to break into a jog to keep up with him. As he ran, his mind raced. How could he have been so stupid to offer such a thing to that demon? He mentally slapped himself. _Now I have truly done it! To aid such an evil! What would Bilbo think of me?_

The terrain began to descend down a gentle hill. Frodo glanced around with wide eyes, breathing heavily, and frantically searching for signs of Sam. That he did not see, but this area was somewhat familiar. He grimaced at the bodies he saw littering the ground ahead. They were seriously rank, stinking of decaying flesh. The most he could manage was a panicked and horrified cursory examination as he bounded by, making sure each corpse was not the body of his friend. Weapons were littered about. Now they ran along an ancient, degrading stone wall. Elvish arrows protruded from many an Orc carcass, each shot obviously deadly in its aim. Frodo had not the time to carefully consider the scene, for Gollum was gaining ground ahead of him, and he pushed his small, weary body harder.

Ahead there was the sound of rushing water, and then Frodo saw the clear blue of the Anduin through the trees. Gollum came to an abrupt halt and pranced around. "Here Sméagol found the Elf knife! Here it was, _gollum!_" Frodo stopped beside him and hunched over a moment, sweat running down his flushed face. After he regained his wind, he analyzed the area. Even now, so many days later, the signs of great scuffle were apparent. Dark blood splattered upon leaves and the dragging of feet had upset the soil. Four or five Orcs lay in a reeking heap of tangled limbs and slashed flesh. The Hobbit felt dizzy and terrified. This is where Legolas had fallen.

Tears burned his eyes, but he refused to cry. Ignoring Gollum for the moment, he staggered to the muddy shore and looked out across the water. Once the nausea and depression abated, he stopped to think. This indeed was once their camp. He recognized the rocks and the trees. In the sand were a plethora of footprints, some large and flat, others thin and light. Frustrated he looked away from the marks; he would never be able to tell the age of any of the prints. Otherwise there was nothing of any worth, and there was no clue as to Sam's location.

Disheartened, Frodo stepped back. His mind was racing. What had happened here? So much of what occurred remained a blur to Frodo, a tangled collection of frightening voices and faces and pain. He did not remember Aragorn ever bringing him back here. As he thought about it, he made some sense of the cloudy mess. The ranger had carried him in this direction, but they had come upon Gimli, Merry, and Pippin first, and that distraction had ended their journey.

Frodo turned then and returned to the shelter of the woods. Gollum looked at him expectantly, obviously wishing for him to deliver upon his word. "Come," Frodo beckoned, and the Hobbit vehemently stepped towards where he recalled they had reunited with the others. Quickly he walked. His frantic mind pushed his body faster, and he tore through the woods. Gollum he heard rapidly following him.

After a few moments, he found what he sought. This was the clearing along the muddy banks where they had found Gimli, Merry, and Pippin. Frodo looked around quickly. More footprints were pressed into the mud, faded with the passage of days. The Hobbit narrowed his eyes. His memory did not deceive him!

There, concealed in the thick brush, were the boats, turned over and hidden with loose branches. Frodo stepped closer and pushed aside the limbs obscuring the gray bellies of the vessels. Only two remained, as Frodo thought. That could only mean that Sam had taken the third. The assumption was sound, and Frodo felt soft relief weaken him. His exhausted legs wobbled, threatening to collapse him. Sam was yet alive! The euphoria was powerful and draining.

"Boats," hissed Gollum from behind him. "Good tidings! Boats!"

Frodo snapped from his daze and turned to face the creature. Though this knowledge was calming to his soul, it was also alarming to his mind. Why would Sam have crossed the Anduin? Gruesome and horrifying ideas plagued Frodo. Surely he had done it to escape the Orcs at Amon Hen! Yet fleeing to Mordor was so dangerous, and Sam was not the best of fighters or thinkers. Frodo prayed silently that he was safe.

A plan formed in Frodo's mind then. It was really the only option, no matter how he disliked it. He had to follow Sam. "We cross the Anduin together. Help me turn the boat over."

Gollum was all too happy to oblige his order, jumping to his side. Together the two small beings pushed and pulled, grunting in the effort, for the boats were extremely heavy upon their muscles. When they succeeded, the gray vessel was ready for use. Aragorn had emptied it of their supplies before stowing it, so it was vacant aside from two oars. Then Frodo resolutely shoved it to the water, bearing his teeth in the effort. Once in the river, he waded into the cool liquid and hauled himself in to it.

The boat shook and tipped with the weight precariously, but soon steadied in the clear river. The Hobbit glanced up. Biting back his disbelief and anger, he motioned for Gollum to follow. "Hurry."

Gollum hissed as he struggled through the water to the boat as though the fresh and cool substance were a poison to his mottled and slimy skin. The creature gripped the wooden edges of the vessel before lightly lifting his thin body over and into the craft. Frodo watched him warily. He set Legolas' knife down beside him after a moment. This was his decision. He would have to accept it. Even more, he would have to make himself trust this creature of the shadow or they would not get anywhere.

He offered Gollum an oar that dwarfed them both in size, and the creature grabbed it. Then frantically he began to row, as if now that he had a path to the Ring once more he could no longer bear to be slow. Frodo swallowed his aversion and took up his own oar. Slipping the head into the clear Anduin, he too began to drive the vessel across the river.

They labored in silence, yet each was acutely aware of the other. The sun beat down upon them. Frodo's mind was jumbled with much thought, and he had not the strength to sort the knot of emotions and worries. Yet, before they reached the other shore, a strange idea popped unannounced into his head. It seemed folly, but he could not dismiss it. A silly thing, really, for how could it be possible? Could he and Gollum be seeking the same thing? Could the Ring have…

The Hobbit shook his head. Surely not.

* * *

><p>Isengard smelled of foul things, of burning bodies and rotting corpses, and Gimli wrinkled his nose. Each breath was more a poisonous torture than anything else, clenching the stomach and dizzying the mind. He longed for the cool, dank aromas of dark places, of peaceful air that was undisturbed by the heat of the sun or the passing of years. This place was a disgusting wasteland of fetid water and dead creatures. It thoroughly repulsed him.<p>

This should have been but a minor concern, but the Dwarf found the putrid scent distracting. Inwardly complaining about such a thing saved his mind from the turmoil of their situation.

He stood now much the same as he had for the past hour or so, looking at the spike of black jutting against the clouds that was the tower of Orthanc. It vexed him that he should finally see such a magnificent feat of architecture during such a dire time. For many years he had wished to visit Isengard, the home of the wise and powerful Istari, as he had long heard from his elders that it was a regal and wondrous place. This land before him now was barren, decimated by the corruption of the One Ring and torn asunder by madness. It was no longer a symbol of logic and good, but a testament of vulgar and disgraceful evil. He wished that a time when cruelty could so completely and easily distort purity had never come to Middle Earth!

The doors slowly creaked open and he focused his gaze upon the portal. The two Elves they had recently met stepped through, the loud-mouthed, arrogant one first. This one was named Astaldogald, and Gimli detested him. He blatantly and proudly represented everything about Elvenkind with which the Dwarf found fault. The haughty prince treated all with detached superiority, and Gimli could hardly stand for it. Behind him stepped the other Elf, a creature called Aratadarion. He was a mere shade of his brother. Quiet and meek, Gimli disliked him as well. Though Astaldogald boasted far too much gall, Aratadarion seemed to lack courage and confidence completely. They were a strange sort, these two Elf princes, and Gimli had to carefully consider each to convince himself that they were indeed kin to Legolas. Astaldogald held Legolas' fair, golden coloration, and Aratadarion shared with Gimli's friend his fair beauty. As unbelievable as it appeared, they bore enough resemblance to the lost archer that Gimli could not deny the relation. He had never dreamed Legolas' siblings to be so infuriating!

Haldir regarded the approaching twins coolly. Gimli looked up to the Lórien Elf. At least Haldir as well wore his disapproval for the sons of Thranduil clearly upon his face. "What have you discovered?" asked the archer calmly.

"Little," returned Astaldogald. "Legolas suffered greatly here; this is clear to us. Saruman's new destination is not."

"Of course it would not be," grumbled the Dwarf disdainfully. "A wizard of his power would not easily allow himself to be followed!" His heart ached for what Legolas must have endured at the hands of the deranged Istar. The tower reeked of blood and death, of pain and punishment, and its silence screamed shrilly of the horrible things the walls had heard. His rage was constantly pressing upon him, cracking the dam he had constructed to keep it caged inside his heart. An Elf, especially one so connected to the beauty of nature as Legolas, would have languished inside that horrible dungeon. Sorrow choked him. "That wretched demon! My heart bleeds for Legolas, for he is too fair a creature to survive in such a darkness!"

Astaldogald's piercing eyes came upon him. "What would a filthy Dwarf know of such matters?" he asked frigidly. "Do go inside, son of Glóin. Orthanc does resemble a mine as much as a dungeon."

The insult shredded at his control. "You are rotten," snapped Gimli, clenching his hand tighter about the shaft of his massive axe. It took all his will to hold his murderous intentions at bay and stay the swing that itched in his muscles. "Do not seek to insult a friend of your brother!"

"A friend?" repeated the Elf incredulously. Aratadarion watched the display with a helpless expression upon his white face. "A Dwarf is no friend to an Elf, least of all an Elf prince! You presume much!"

"I presume nothing," Gimli countered, his fury escalating beyond his domination. "Legolas has a heart greater than any of yours. Insult me if you wish, but do not jeer him! Blood betraying blood… Thranduil has raised a wretch in you!"

Astaldogald's fingers flew to the hilt of his weapon. Only Haldir's restraining hand stopped him from drawing and advancing on the Dwarf. Gimli thought the Elf prince should consider himself fortunate that Haldir had intervened. "Calm yourselves," chastised the archer quickly, "and keep your peace. Squabbling like children accomplishes nothing."

Gimli growled as Astaldogald glared upon him. He wished nothing more than to pummel the brat to teach him some of the manners that graced Legolas! Yet he did nothing, and after the tension deflated, the Elf dropped his hand from his blade. "Of course," declared Astaldogald quietly. "Forgive me, Haldir of Lórien." The Elf lowered his gaze. "The previous days have tried upon my patience."

In this, at least, Gimli could relate. The twins of Thranduil had recently revealed how they had come to Isengard and the manner through which it had been destroyed. Briefly they explained their encounter with Treebeard, the enormous Ent that led the others. Gimli had never before heard of this race but gathered that they were indeed a potent force to so easily smash through the defenses of Orthanc. He had no doubt that Saruman would have fallen to their power had the wizard not so conveniently known to escape. It had taken quite a bit of cajoling on the part of Treebeard at some meeting that they called an "Entmoot" to convince the other Ents to launch this surprise assault. They did seem a bit lethargic and sluggish to Gimli. It was rather astonishing to think that they had found the energy to crush Orthanc.

Gloomily Gimli wondered how exactly Saruman had decided upon fleeing. It seemed so rash and illogical. The Dwarf knew little of the Istar, only that he was both wise and cunning. Had he somehow learned of their advance? It seemed unlikely, but he could not discredit the theory. The thought of someone betraying their confidence only further enraged him. Legolas had paid dearly for such treachery!

Haldir narrowed his eyes. Clearly he did not care for Astaldogald's response, but he did not push the matter further. From behind them came the fall of feet, and the group turned.

Aragorn approached them slowly and coldly. Gimli eyed the ranger with great compassion. When Aragorn had succumbed to his rage before, the Dwarf had felt his own heart ache for the other's plight. Truly this was a frustrating madness! He felt bonded to Aragorn in love for Legolas, and it hurt him greatly to see the ranger collapse in his toil. To lose both Gandalf and the Elf had taken quite a toll upon the man. As he looked upon his friend, he noted a disturbing change. Quite possibly for the first time since leaving Rivendell, Gimli saw no light in his eyes. They were without vigor, stoic and hard, and Aragorn's face held no characteristic friendliness. He was almost a wraith; deprived of life and love, he was left a dark menace bent by sorrow and guilt. Gimli cringed. Yet another of the Fellowship irreparably damaged, changed beyond return. Would this torture never end?

When Aragorn spoke, his voice was icy. "Come morning, I ride to Minas Tirith," he declared, eyeing the group almost suspiciously. "Those that wish to join me may, but I tarry for no one."

_Minas Tirith. _ Gimli's heart tightened in anger and pain. He felt it pump his fearful rage through him. This was wrong! If they went to the White City, never would they find Legolas! Surely Aragorn had not given up his driving hope! "Son of Arathorn," he began roughly, praying that his thoughts were untrue, "we cannot abandon Legolas! Saruman will destroy him!"

The hard glare cut into him like glass, and he shuddered within. "What choice do we have?" hissed Aragorn. "Time spent chasing Saruman is wasted. Duty calls me elsewhere, Gimli."

"Nay, Aragorn-"

"Speak not of it!" shouted the ranger harshly, his face a picture of thunder and fury. Gimli swallowed his words. He had to tighten every muscle of his body to prevent shaking in rage. His heart shivered. "This is the choice _I_ must make, and I have made it."

All were quiet. Behind Aragorn stood Éomer. The Rider seemed baffled at the dissension among them. He spoke quietly. "I will lend you my fastest horses, son of Arathorn. May they hasten your journey. As for the men of the Mark, we return to Edoras to mourn our fallen lord at dawn. My sister, though strong and good, cannot manage our kingdom for long." Aragorn turned and Éomer bowed stiffly. "You have won our allegiance, heir of Isildur. Use it well."

"And the Ents?" asked Haldir evenly.

Astaldogald regarded them all with a doubtful glare. "They return to Fangorn this eve. Though their assault went smoothly, some were lost, and they are in mourning for the destruction of these forests." The Elf shook his head. "I know not what they might do after."

"Might we call upon their aid in the future?" question Éomer, regarding the Elves plainly.

"It was not my question to ask," Astaldogald said. He turned his harsh eyes to the Third Marshall of the Mark. Then the bright glare fell upon Aragorn. "As for myself and my brother, we continue on our hunt when dawn strikes the sky. Your duty might direct you elsewhere, son of Arathorn, but ours is steadfast." There was unspoken threat and malice laced into the tight words.

Aragorn responded in kind. "I trust you will do your best, son of Thranduil." Gimli stiffened at the cold tone. It was an insult of the worst kind, meant to indirectly and subtly demean the other's honor.

Astaldogald had the gall to chuckle. "A fool would doubt." Then he turned stiffly and stepped away, heading to the grove of Ents convening and preparing to return to their forest home nearby. Aratadarion lingered a moment more to offer an apologetic glance before trailing his brother. Gimli cursed them both as he watched their lithe forms disappear among the gray and brown bodies of the Ents.

They were silent a moment. The emptiness clearly riled Éomer, for he seemed jumpy and anxious to escape its choking grasp. "I take my leave, my Lord," he said simply. Aragorn offered him a small nod. Then the Rider turned and walked to the camp of the army behind them.

A chilly quiet came to them. The sun was beginning to descend to the horizon, and the night would be cold. The man, the Dwarf, and Elf were still. Gimli felt a tempest of emotion rage inside him with such force that he thought it might rip him apart. He could not find the voice to say anything more, distraught with worry. Haldir finally slashed the emptiness. "Aragorn," he began softly. His eyes softened a bit, and he seemed to hesitate. Gimli watched him intently. This Elf perplexed him, for Haldir was aloof and condescending, but of a good heart at least. The Dwarf begrudgingly had begun to respect his skills in battle; Haldir was both an excellent archer and swordsman. Though he lacked Legolas' friendly charisma and youthful flare, he had a certain simplistic strength about him that comforted and assured. Gimli knew Haldir would never falter as long as the power to fight lived within him. "I feel I need to apologize." The soft words stunned the Dwarf. "This was a difficult decision for you, and I know it grieves you deeply. My… _insistences_ surely aided you not."

The ranger did not meet Haldir's remorseful eyes. Aragorn was smoldering. "You made your point clear," he said, his voice seething. "You have won this fight. Do not soil your victory with a shallow repentance. It will not bring Legolas back." With that, he turned and coolly left.

Haldir stiffened. Gimli watched the ranger's back in utter stupefaction. Never before had he heard Aragorn be so cruel! Oh, a foul day this was! Legolas, he feared, was lost forever to them now. Aragorn was slipping into a depressed shadow. This was not the way it should be! Friends tearing into each other in bloody turmoil and pain! Alas, how he wished to escape it all!

There came a whispered breath beside him. Though faint, he heard it clearly enough. "Elbereth, forgive me."

Gimli stared numbly at the crestfallen Elf for a moment. Surprisingly he found himself pitying Haldir. The Elf had only done what he had been ordered, what he thought was right. He did not deserve the harsh treatment Aragorn had leveled against him.

The Dwarf sighed tiredly. What was to become of them now? They were falling apart, bonds of loyalty and friendship fracturing, and Gimli felt alone and lost. He missed Legolas so badly; it ached like nothing he had felt before. _Give me the strength to endure,_ he implored sadly. _I fear there is much heartache yet to come for us all. _

* * *

><p>Another cold night came to the camp, and Boromir shivered. He laid alone on his side, apart from the site the Dwarf, the Elf, and the Hobbits had made for themselves. The man squeezed his eyes shut. With all his will he tried to ignore their presence, for it was a painful reminder of what now he could never rejoin. With all his heart he sought to block out the agonizing memories prodding at his attention. Coming to Isengard had been a torturous venture, for all around, in the air, in the ground, and in his heart, were the signs of the evil he had helped propagate, of the traitor he had let himself become. No matter how he tried these he could not ignore.<p>

This was where he had truly become a monster.

He tried to relax his tense muscles and slow his bated breathing, but his own suffering discouraged him. The tangle of emotion his heart had become could not be sorted, and he hated his own weakness. He deserved the cold treatment had the hands of the others. It was his obsession that had shattered the Fellowship. Because of him they now mourned the loss of a companion. Because of him Aragorn lost his courage and compassion. Because of him Gimli wallowed in depression and Haldir coldly suffered for choices made. Because of him Merry and Pippin lost their innocent trust, and that more than anything did he wish to restore. Yet he could not entirely fault himself. His pride would not allow him to cast himself as a complete traitor. He still did not find error in his logic. With the One Ring he could protect Gondor, perhaps even all of Middle Earth. For the plight of his people had he done what he had. He could not stand to see the proud race of men flounder. He wanted to be their hope. Using the Ring for good seemed to be the only way to offer them faith.

Yet he had only destroyed where he sought to create. Such a sick contradiction! He despised himself as much as he did Aragorn. They were a pitiful pair, the two of them. Hating one another. Neither of them strong enough or good enough to do what was needed. How dare Aragorn blame him for what happened when the ranger himself had not even had the will to try?

All the conflicting things he felt nonplused Boromir, and he wished vehemently for the nattering of it all to cease so he might rest. Isengard disturbed him enough; he did not need his own conscience to further unsettle his heart.

The quiet was deafening. Every beat of his battered heart seemed so loud, and he shook with the chill. It invaded his body, seeping through his clothes as though they were nonexistent. He lay still for a long time in the dark, huddled and shuddering, trying to find some semblance of peace, before his turmoil was interrupted. "Here," came a familiar, soft voice. Boromir turned over, and a mixture of shock and joy colder than the night air struck him.

Pippin stood over him. Obscured by shadows, the Hobbit's innocent face seemed hard but concerned. The small creature offered him a wool quilt hesitantly. For a moment, both were paralyzed, as though uncertain how to feel or what to do. Boromir blankly looked between the other's eyes and the blanket. Then Pippin cleared his throat noisily. "Take it. It's too cold tonight to be without one."

Tentatively the stunned man from Gondor reached up. Slowly he received the gift, afraid he had indeed lapsed into sleep and that at any moment somehow he might wake and this glorious happening might vanish like a dream. He soul shook in relief. Pippin smiled nervously. "It's okay, really. I have an extra."

Stranger still to the man was what happened next. Pippin, as though suddenly unthreatened by Boromir or what he had done, sat gingerly upon the cold hard ground next to him.

They were silent a long time. Boromir did not know what to say. Inexplicably a lump of guilt and shame had clogged his throat, and he could not think. So very badly he wanted Pippin's affection and respect once more that he wondered if he might simply wither from his desire. The Hobbit looked blankly ahead, his elbows braced upon his thighs and his chin resting on his hands. The contemplative look seemed most unusual on the typically dense and impudent creature. "Merry says I shouldn't bother," began he quietly after a moment, "but I can't make myself stop wondering." Boromir found himself nervously twisting the hem of the folded quilt in his lap. He dreaded the question that he knew was coming. "Why did you do it?"

It was the first time anyone had bothered to ask him. The sound of it seemed strange to his ears. His motives must be an inconsequential matter, after all, for his vile deeds spoke more than any excuse he could offer. Yet, as incredible as it seemed, Pippin cared to know, whether it be out of concern or for his own edification. But now what to say? A thousand things stampeded through his mind, yet his stunned attention could latch onto naught, and he faltered a moment. Finally, in a weak voice that betrayed all too clearly his fear of rejection, he said, "I only meant to do good with it." It sounded pathetic and lame, but he could not stop now. "I thought… that I might use the Ring to destroy Sauron and unite my people. I thought I could save them with it." He nearly choked on his words. Frodo had not believed them. Why would Pippin? "I did not mean to become its slave."

Pippin was quiet and his stillness frightened Boromir. Would the Hobbit now refuse his explanation and leave him dejected once more? The long moment was a torture of the worst kind. "Would you take it all back if you could?"

The question hung on the air. His craving for the Ring reared within him, and he shuddered. Though his nobility and his shame kept the desire caged, he knew it would always be with him now. After feeling the Ring's glorious power, after knowing its tempting song, he would never be rid of the yearning for it. Holding the Ring, for even such a brief time as he had, had been wondrous, and he was addicted to that power and security. He did not know if, given the chance, he would again succumb to his lusts. Neither did he understand his heart, for though he despised what he had done to obtain the Ring, he did not regret having had it. "I do not know," he admitted.

A long time passed again before Pippin spoke. "I hate what we've become," the Hobbit declared. The hurt in his voice was terrible to hear. At that moment, Boromir wished only to erase Pippin's pain. "I hate to see friend turn upon friend. I hate what this did to Frodo. I miss Frodo, and I miss Sam. I wonder if I'll see them again." The Hobbit's voice quivered. Boromir looked to him. Pippin's cheeks glistened wetly in the meager light. "I miss Legolas and Gandalf. And I missed you."

Boromir's heart broke. "You missed me?" he repeated in a weak, disbelieving whisper.

"Certainly," said Pippin. He offered a crooked smile. "Sometimes I think at night when I should be sleeping that nothing would be better than to have this all end now and I could go home to Hobbiton. But that's not true. I don't want everything to just end. I want to have our friends back. I want to somehow take back what happened. It's quite silly, really!" Boromir shook his head. Pippin gave an amused chuckle. "Imagine me, Peregrin Took, on such a great adventure with such fine people! I didn't know any of you before coming to Rivendell. I didn't even like some of you! And I dreaded going so far so fast and facing so much danger. But all the trials we endured together weren't so bad really, and I think that is because we endured them _together_." A choked sob fled the Hobbit. "Now I feel lost and splintered."

"Pippin, surely I-"

"I don't blame you," said Pippin, turning to gaze at the warrior. Surprise crawled through Boromir; there was a quiet wisdom after all in those eyes. "There is indeed enough anger already. I don't feel the need to augment it!" The Hobbit sighed and looked up to the skies. "Nay, I don't blame you! You had your reasons, and I can respect that. Surely Strider has his now." Pippin's small hand came down then and grasped Boromir's upon the dry, cracked ground. The man nearly jerked in alarm. "You are my friend still, even if nobody else will allow you to be."

A friend. Could he be such a thing again? Could he have possibly maintained Pippin's trust? He tasted tears and realized he was crying. Such a thing was a warm comfort to his cold heart! Hope again filled him as they sat in a companionable silence.

He knew now what he must do.

* * *

><p>Dawn came. It was a bright one, the majestic rays of the sun burning oranges, yellows, and reds into lavender clouds upon the horizon. Warm light spread over Isengard, and a cool wind from the hills beyond rushed through, bringing the fresh scent of forest dew and warding away the stench and the chill. Though the land was destroyed, under the motherly light of the sun, life seemed again a possibility.<p>

At the foot of Orthanc stood the allied forces. The soldiers hastily cleaned the camp. The blessing of a beautiful sunrise had returned the spring to their step. The men of Rohan were anxious to return home, after all. This campaign, in the end, had been victorious. The threat of Isengard had been extinguished.

Boromir watched as Aragorn spoke quietly to Éomer. He felt a strange peace that for so long eluded him return. For the first time in days he could look upon the ranger and keep his spite at bay. Finally Aragorn broke his conversation with the Rider of Rohan, and the prince gave the would-be king a short bow. Aragorn nodded, and with that, Éomer turned. He shouted an order to his men, declaring their triumphant return to Edoras, and a rally went through the troops. With one last glance to Aragorn, Éomer and the men of the Mark took their leave.

Boromir watched the retreating army as it marched southeastward into the sunrise. The light bled around them ethereally, and the men glowed with pride. A bit of euphoria found its way into Boromir's heart as he beheld them. Truly it was endearing and encouraging seeing men emerge from a vicious and difficult struggle successfully.

Then Aragorn approached. Surrounding him was what remained of their motley group: three Elves, two Hobbits, and one Dwarf. Gimli and Haldir rode upon Arod, the white beast standing tall in the morning sun. Merry was darkly staring at the ground from atop their pony. Not once had he made eye contact with Boromir, and the cold detachment bothered the warrior. Pippin on the other hand chewed loudly on an apple and regarded him with clear eyes, once again calm and innocent. He too had taken his spot on the pony behind his cousin, preparing to make for the White City. Boromir regretted that he would not be joining them, for his heart now yearned again to see his home and to be in the company of a fair and sweet friend.

The son of Denethor looked to the twins of Thranduil, watching as Astaldogald glared upon Aragorn. The ranger took no heed, grabbing the leather reins of Hasufel. Gracefully he mounted his horse. He nodded curtly to the Elves. "I wish you well," declared the ranger coolly, "and that you have success. Though Legolas is no kin of mine, he is brother to my heart, and I hurt for him. I care not if you believe me."

Astaldogald's face contorted, as if he was quelling a harsh retort for the sake of diplomacy. "We will find him, son of Arathorn. The orders of our king allow us no other choice."

Aragorn seemed angered by the other's attitude, but said nothing more. In the awkward silence that followed, Boromir spoke. "I too bid you farewell, Aragorn."

The eyes of the Fellowship came to him, some shocked, some relieved. Pippin stopped munching, his jaw suddenly limp and his expression hurt. Boromir forced the words from his mouth, swallowing his hesitation. He was dedicated! He was and would continue to be! "I will join the twins of Thranduil in their quest." He sighed slowly, narrowing his eyes and his heart against all other pains. "This I must do."

For a moment, no one spoke. Boromir could feel the objection radiating in harsh waves from Astaldogald behind him. As well did he know the shock of the others. Certainly they must be wondering what now his motives were. He met Aragorn's gaze steadily. Hearts of equal strength connected. "I will not fail you. I will find Legolas," he promised quietly, offering his word. "I will make things right again."

The oath was accepted. A piece of trust was restored. Aragorn's hard expression softened a bit, the tiniest sight of relief returning to his stony eyes. Then the ranger nodded. He turned, as if it became too painful to remain in this horrible place, and spurred his horse into a gallop down the path from Orthanc. Upon Arod Gimli glared and Haldir remained nonchalant. They as well followed quickly. Lastly left Merry and Pippin. Though the former would not so much as share a glance with Boromir, Pippin's face was open and relieved. Proud. Boromir gave him a small, private grin of gratitude before they too were gone.

The air became still a moment. The three remaining were tense and stiff. Boromir took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Resolutely he turned to face his new companions. He had done it. He had taken a new path for himself and faced his sins. Now he could begin to hopefully make amends.

"We travel east to the Anduin. I have considered this much, and this seems the only probable conclusion. Logic dictates that Mordor must be Saruman's intention. No other place in Middle Earth offers him security and power. I sincerely doubt he would dare go north to Dol Guldur." Astaldogald cast a cold glare upon him. "If you wish to join us, son of Denethor, I will not stop you," said the Elf coolly as he slid a dagger into a sheath at his waist. "But I caution you to keep pace with us. We will not wait for you."

Boromir glanced between the two twins, amazed by their differences. He was insulted by Astaldogald's haughty words but he would not allow that to dent his determination. He would have to endure it. "You need not worry," he assured quickly, his hand resting slightly on the hilt of his blade. "I am no weakling."

Astaldogald grunted as if to challenge the statement. Then he turned to his brother. Aratadarion gave a small affirmative nod of his readiness, and then they began to run east.

As they did and the morning progressed, Boromir's mind began to churn with an uncomfortable thought that began as an idle concern but had morphed into a pressing fear. These two Elf princes were powerful indeed, for they were of the same blood as Legolas, and Boromir had many a time witnessed the dangerous prowess of the archer in the ways of battle. Did they know of the Boromir's duplicity? He prayed they did not. It did not seem so, because both regarded him with prejudiced suspicion and nothing more. He cursed himself for not seeing this earlier! Here again he must hide what he had done, though this time for his own safety. A sick irony to be now traveling with Legolas' kin!

He must be careful. He cringed inwardly.

If they discovered that he was the man who had betrayed their brother, he had no doubt they would not hesitate in killing him.


	13. A Promise Kept

**DISCLAIMER:** _Lord of the Rings_ is the property of the Tolkien estate, New Line Cinema, and Warner Brothers Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.

**RATING:** T (for violence, some scenes of torture, disturbing imagery)

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Thank you kindly for all your comments! You guys are awesome! Well, can things get any worse for poor Legolas? The answer is "yes", of course :-(.

**VEILING OF THE SUN**

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A PROMISE KEPT**

Legolas growled deep inside his throat. The sound was low and unnatural to his ears. Weeks prior he would have thought doing such a thing unbecoming of an Elf, much less an Elf prince. But he had changed much in the crushing grip of the darkness. He would not pretend that his ragged appearance did not disturb him. The mud, dirt, and blood stained into his skin and his tangled hair disgusted him. His clothes were tatters that clung like scraps of rags to his thinning body. He would not deny the pain he felt. The many wounds inflicted upon him made movement a trying torture. But he had reached the point beyond caring. The blows inflicted by the cruelty of his captors hurt less when he used his anger as a shield. This was the greatest difference he felt in himself, and though it scared him, he did not know how to fight it. He was not even sure he wanted to, for this rage and panic that was budding inside his heart where his calm, stoic peace once resided was his only weapon against the shadow. He would not fade quietly. They would not so easily take him to his doom.

The reason for his rage this day was much the same as it had been for the last few. And, on this gray, cold morning, he was again rewarded for his impudence. The Uruk-hai's hard fist rammed into his face, sending Legolas to the soft floor of the forest. The Elf wheezed for a moment, blood gushing from his nose, before the ugly Orc reached down and yanked him by the rope around his neck upwards. As the tough cord tightened, its dry threads bit into the soft flesh of his neck with a painful burn.

"Stupid Elf," came a guttural hiss. The Uruk-hai's eyes were glowing with sadistic malice. Legolas glared back with equal hate. Since leaving Isengard, his anger and pain had morphed into a frustrated murderous fury. He longed often to repay these brutes in kind for all the vile things to which they had subjected him. But he was always kept at a disadvantage. They trussed him so tightly that never would his hands come free. Underneath his fear and disgust, it gave the Elf prince some small bit of satisfaction that they feared him enough to keep him bound and leashed like an animal.

He did not show them his panic or his terror. Thus, when the first blows landed, he did not cry out. He lay as still as he could when the beast pummeled him with powerful kicks and brutal fists, forcing himself to relax. Though it was agonizing, he knew it was necessary. Fighting back or trying to protect himself resulted in more injury. He had learned quickly that the Orcs lost interest in doling out his punishment when he acted a limp doll instead of a furious combatant. They reveled in his struggles. If that he did not give to them, they would abandon their harassment of him. What they did not realize was the less they injured him, the stronger he would be the following morning to again attempt to flee. Foolish creatures.

Legolas closed his eyes, keeping a grimace from his face, as the heel of the Orc's massive foot crashed into his exposed belly, bruising the skin and crushing his innards. The Elf prince this time could not stifle a cry. The blow left him gasping, his body shaking in waves of tumultuous pain, and for a moment all he could do was breathe.

"Enough." Legolas was slow to regain his senses. He loathed the sight that came to him when he did.

Saruman's placid face yielded so much implicit malice, his eyes veritably glimmering with hot sadism. Legolas swallowed the bile burning the back of his throat and forced himself to focus, though the shock from the last strike was slow to recede. He could not afford to falter before Saruman. For the pride of his father, he could not!

The wizard gave a cold, amused chuckle. "Another escape attempt, Legolas? Surely by now you must realize it is folly." Saruman's voice sang a sick tale of twisted lust and untold corruption. "You will never be free of my grasp, dear Elf."

The Elf narrowed his eyes but said nothing. The words had cut through his resolve, and though his anger was driving, his heart wavered. It had been a boon to him to again be among the trees, to breath the revitalizing cool air of the forest, to feel the soft warmth of the sun ease his aching hurts. Departing the rank dungeon of Isengard had heartened him in that at least. Feeling the caress of the wind again had brought him hope enough to fight them, and he had. His old wounds had begun to mend with the return of his strength. Only a dozen or so Uruk-hai had the wizard brought with him on his journey, leaving the rest to contend with the force of Rohan. Wormtongue, that pasty little man that had betrayed Aragorn's location in Rohan, had been sent to Gondor on Saruman's orders. He was to, by whatever means necessary, prevent the would-be heir to the throne of men from assuming his position and rallying the legions of Gondor against Sauron. Saruman had surmised Aragorn would try to do such from the ranger's new allegiance with Rohan. The Elf prince feared for Aragorn; though Wormtongue appeared a weakling, he was empowered by evil and sly with his words. At least this intimated that Saruman was not so powerful as to be beyond fear, and that his dear friend had come at last to proudly assume his birthright.

Even with the diminished company, Legolas knew he was in no condition to best so many without a weapon and bound as such. His ribs, though healing, were still a hindrance to his breathing. He had regained some use of his left hand, but still he could not get enough strength into his swollen fingers to grip anything. Each new injury he sustained as well reversed any progress he had made in salvaging his might. Hobbled and bound, he had only managed to pull away from his captors when their attentions were directed elsewhere. Always he was quickly apprehended and beaten for it. At best all he had been able to do was retard the inevitable march of Saruman east.

Legolas felt tears of frustration and fear coming to his eyes. He indeed knew it was foolish. Even so, he could not allow himself to be dragged to his death without struggling. That was not how he had been taught to live. His father, though arrogant and easily swayed by drink, had instructed each of his sons in the weight of their heritage. Never would he end his defiance. It was what drove him to fight, even though he knew the endeavor to be fruitless and detrimental. If Saruman stole his pride, truly he would be broken.

So he blinked back his tears and stifled his hopeless sob. "Anything to slow you," he snapped coolly in bold anger.

He did not regret his words, though they were met with harsh brutality. The Uruk-hai holding the rope about his neck yanked it most viciously, and Legolas was bodily lifted from the cool forest floor. The knot tightened, choking him. His lungs began to burn and he gagged. He vaguely felt warm blood seep from the burns upon his neck. With his hands tied tightly behind his back, there was no way to defend himself. The Orc laughed as he rammed his fist again into the Elf's stomach. Legolas' scream died as the air rushed from his lungs.

After he was dropped. Legolas gasped as he struck the ground, the impact jostling bruises and bones. Above the ringing in his ears he heard laughing. Then the cold tones of the wizard. "Silly child. Why do you seek to destroy yourself?" asked Saruman. "Do you take pleasure in your own pain?"

Wetness blurred Legolas' vision as he sucked in breath after breath, trying to fill his blazing lungs. "I will not give you the satisfaction," he gasped, wincing as he struggled to sit up, "of seeing me broken, Saruman."

The Istar's pleased grin chilled Legolas. "You act as though you can deny me such. Little Elf. You truly are a silly creature, Legolas Greenleaf! Tell me, how might I punish you now for your resistance? Though it much amuses me to see a small, pitiful being such as yourself struggle against his fate, you have caused me much delay. You might think yourself wise, little Elf, but you are but a foolish child, and I see all things." Legolas' thundering heart held still a moment. He felt the color drain from his face. "You are biding your time. You do not fight my Uruk-hai when they beat you to lessen injury. Undoubtedly you are conserving your strength to truly make your escape." Legolas felt his soul shake. For days this had been his thought. Being so easily disarmed of it chilled him. Truly Saruman's sick logic was deadly! The wizard cruelly scrutinized him. "I see now from your fair paling cheeks that I am indeed right. Your face betrays much, Legolas. A mature Elf would never wear his emotions so plainly. I laugh at the sight of your fear!" Indeed, he did.

Anger coursed through Legolas, and he felt his composure flutter. Again the murderous rage piqued. Saruman's belittling of him hurt in some ways more than the bruises and blood. How he wished he could remove that nasty, sadistic, smug grin from the wizard's long, pale face! Days ago he had begun to wonder why Saruman had not killed him. It made little sense to Legolas, and he had had a great deal of time to ponder the bleak prospect. Surely he was of no use to the wizard now. Saruman had deduced what had become of the Ring. Though Legolas prayed he had done nothing to aid in the wizard's disastrous conclusions, he still felt horrible and guilty that he had failed in protecting Sam and Frodo. Yet Saruman had learned what he had wished, and certainly knowing _which_ of the Hobbits in particular carried the hateful Ring was trivial. Why then did he keep his prisoner alive? As Legolas had considered it, two reasons came to him. Saruman had made many assumptions in his reasoning. Though Legolas knew them to be true, the old wizard was not stupid. He would not leave himself without a failsafe. Killing Legolas would mean destroying the last known link with the One Ring. That was likely a risk Saruman would not take. This seemed a trifle concern to Legolas, for though he revealed nothing of his painful defeat, he knew Saruman had discovered the truth. The latter motive disturbed the Elf prince greatly. Here again was the sick obsession in Saruman's eyes, the hungry lust to intimidate and destroy. He needed no great intelligence to see that his suffering gave the wizard great delight and gratification. As base as it might be, the wizard would not have his entertainment perish. Legolas hated him for reducing him to mere object to use and abuse!

"You are mad, Saruman," hissed the Elf prince. His tone was seething in burning resentment and spite. "It is you who is the fool if you think that Sauron will share his power. There are no allies in greed. There is no loyalty in evil. Find his Ring if you wish. I am sure he will kindly repay you in betrayal!"

The harsh truths did not go unheeded. Legolas felt euphoric as he detected the smallest hints of fear and worry in the wizard. In a flash they were gone. Saruman glared upon the Elf, black ire in his eyes. "Insolent child! Stay your stupid tongue!" The brilliant blue eyes of the young prince locked upon the black gaze of the wizard, and in this they warred. Then the Istar grinned slowly and crookedly. "I tire of you, Legolas. Your continual defiance disgusts me."

The Elf's face hardened. "Then kill me. I will not submit to you, Saruman. You do not have the power to force me down!" The statement hurt, but he pushed it from his mouth. In truth he was terrified that he would face darker things come their arrival into Mordor. They were nearly upon the Anduin. There was not much time left. He doubted he would have the strength to face the black of Minas Morgul.

Saruman shook his head. "My dear Legolas, I grow weary of your infernal nobility. Your purity is repulsive. Your fair beauty is insulting. Your Elven blood gives you much strength, but I will see it turn cold and dead." Legolas stiffened. "I will see you humiliated for your contempt! Do you seek to test me, fair prince? You have wasted much of my time with your fleet steps and agile mind. So now I shall rid you of your means to defy." The wizard's white expression was cold and placid. "We march on, and you keep pace with us. But you walk now unprotected and without the benefit of your shoes. This is my retribution. After the rocks and ruts have torn your light feet to pieces, let us see how you will escape me."

Cold terror washed over the Elf. Legolas' heart boomed painfully in his chest as the Uruk-hai around him smiled malevolently. With his hands bound and the rope about his neck taut, he could do nothing besides wriggle as the massive, stinking Orcs came upon him. "No!" The one holding the rope slammed his huge, meaty paw around Legolas' pale throat, holding him to the ground with a crushing grip. The Elf could barely breathe, and panic and instinct directed his battered body in its struggle. His hands were crushed behind him by his own weight.

As the other Uruk-hai shredded at his light boots, the one restraining him smiled. The grotesque, cracked lips pulled tight to reveal rotted, yellow teeth. Blackness bordered the world for Legolas, hungrily devouring the scene, and his body was burning. He kicked vainly. Vaguely he felt his toes strike something firm and heard a squeal. The small victory was lost to him, for more Uruk-hai were quick to join their comrades in traumatizing their prisoner.

A fist slammed into his temple, and he could not see any longer. He could not breathe. A rough claw raked through his ragged hair, pulling and ripping. Another scraped down the skin of his breast. "Stupid, stupid Elf," came a quiet snarl. It was the last thing he heard before he crashed into blackness.

* * *

><p>Before the mark of two days passed Saruman's legion arrived at the Anduin. They were far south of the Falls of Rauros, where the great stone statures of mighty kings guarded the watery entrance to Gondor with vigilant eyes that never slept. Here they could not protect him. These forests were darker, rockier, and Legolas knew his time was nearly gone. Across the dark river was the black eastern shore, the trees bent and sick. Their song was a pained one of terror and corruption. It mirrored his own heart. Once they crossed the Anduin into Minas Morgul, there would be no hope for him.<p>

Still, he could do nothing to stop it. He had hoped that the massive expanse of the water might pose a problem for the Orcs and their master. As they reached the shore, though, that futile and silly wish died. The Uruk-hai assigned to guard him that day held his arm tightly as Saruman stepped to the bank. On light feet the Istar floated, his white robes shimmering in the midday sun like wisps of clouds. Legolas watched silently and in stupefaction as the great wizard stepped lightly upon the calm waters of the river. He walked on the water, but its liquid being supported him as easily as stone, and not wetness came to his white robes. The light from above streamed down about the wizard like ethereal streams of energy, and Saruman lifted his black staff slightly. An incredible thing happened then, and Legolas for once could forget his toil as he marveled at the sight before him. Saruman breathed out quiet words in a tongue foreign to the Elf prince, and the Istar abruptly then raised his staff to the sky. Below him water became ice with a gust of freezing wind that hurt the skin. It drew up into a ridge of clear solid, forming a sturdy plateau beneath Saruman's robes that extended from shore to shore. The cold, violent gale disappeared.

The wizard turned then to face his company. A small smug, satisfied smile twisted his thin lips. Legolas' spirits tumbled as the Uruk-hai growled and grunted in appreciation of their master. Without further delay, they crossed the river.

The road turned south, their path hugging the eastern bank of the mighty Anduin as it rushed. This place was quiet and dark. Old trees nearly strangled by thick, snaking veins were the sole inhabitants of the deep forest. Without the chatter of bird or squirrel, their agonized song was clear and paining. It brought chills to Legolas' heart. These words reminded him of those that surrounded Dol Goldur. Many times in the past, he and his brothers had led war parties to the southern border of their kingdom in chase of Orcs or other ghoul. There as well the forest was as such, as though the ancient fortress of Sauron, though mostly dilapidated and deserted, had poisoned the soil and air through which trees fed and breathed. It was a sad thing, truly, and it hurt Legolas anew with every visit. Evil suffocated good, much like the strong vines so intent upon squeezing the life from the forest.

Their keening plea for release only added to his depression. Each step was absolute torture. This land was rough and uneven, and these trees did not shed leaves to comfortably soften the forest floor. The rough ground cut at his soft skin, leaving blisters and bleeding welts, and he could barely put any weight upon his feet. He knew vaguely that stones and dirt were infecting the cuts. He limped and staggered, and the Uruk-hai were not kind to his plight. They dragged him forward and struck him when he resisted. True to Saruman's orders, he was made to keep pace. A cruel punishment indeed!

Another day passed before Legolas collapsed. Saruman at once appeared both pleased and disgusted at the Elf's fall, and ordered a camp made that night. They were now very close to the black fortress, and the wind screamed of evil. The black woods, crooked and contaminated, sang a weak lament without respite to their kindred spirit, but Legolas was beaten. His strength was fleeting and his heart was heavy with the burden of his destiny. He would never escape. He would never again know the beauty of his forests or see pride in his father's eyes. He would no longer quarrel with Astaldogald or sing with Aratadarion. Gimli's gruff friendship was lost to him, and the cheer of his Hobbit companions was gone. Never would he hear Arwen's laughter or know Aragorn's confidence. This was his fate. He was bound to darkness.

His body ached and his soul shriveled. The evil here was so strong, so powerful, that he felt dirty breathing the air and sick resting upon the ground. He mourned these trees for the eternity they had had to endure in the putrid wake of Minas Morgul. In this dark forest, no light penetrated, and he was prisoner to the night. At least, for the moment, his captors were ignoring him. They had left him propped against a trunk. His hands had been tied in front of him now so that he might feed himself. The stale, sour bread and the cup of water rested upon the ground untouched.

The Elf closed his eyes and swallowed the sob trapped in his throat. Hopelessly he waited for a dawn he knew would not come.

* * *

><p>A black night had come to Mordor. Sam looked up to the sky, but there were no stars. The moon was hidden behind dark, bulky clouds, and its light could not find its way through. It seemed to him a dark omen. A few times since the sun had set had he noticed a midnight blotch that appeared darker than the surrounding clouds travel the sky. At first he thought it to be a trick of his eyes or a fault of his exhausted mind. Yet with each reoccurrence he doubted more that it was simply a figment of his imagination.<p>

He watched now, standing atop a rocky projection, narrowing his eyes and straining his senses. So engrossed was he in his examination of the clouds that Gandalf's question startled him. "What is it, Samwise?"

Sam jerked in surprise and turned suddenly. He flushed with embarrassment. "Nothing, Mister Gandalf, sir. I thought I saw something big flying overhead, but surely I must be daft with weariness, for there is nothing there now!"

The old, kind wizard regarded the Hobbit with knowing eyes. Sam found his gaze at once easing and disconcerting. "You imagine nothing, Sam," spoke Gandalf, his deep voice quiet and somber with importance. He stepped closer and laid a comforting hand upon the Hobbit's small shoulder. "That is no mere shadow you see traversing the clouds."

Sam blanched. The words held worried gravity and Gandalf's fingers were almost painfully tight upon him. "What is it?" he asked in a hushed, frightened tone.

Gandalf's old face grew taut and concerned. "The Witch King," declared the wizard in a voice hardly louder than a whisper. "The Lord Angmar, the liege of the Nazgûl." The old man shook his head in disapproval. "He is hunting here, I believe. On his great, winged mount of black, hunting and roaming between Barad-Dûr and Minas Morgul."

"Hunting?" repeated Sam in a strangled murmur. He felt himself shivering, but he could not find the strength to stop the instinctive shaking of his body. He remembered the Nazgûl clearly enough. They had pursued the Hobbits relentlessly after leaving the Shire. Like a nightmare, they rode on black horses, draped in cloaks of midnight, and shrieked into the air like ghouls. Until they had come to the Prancing Pony at Bree and met Strider, the four Hobbits had not known fully the extent of the evil that trailed them. _"They were once men,"_ Aragorn had explained to them. _"Great kings of men. Then Sauron the Deceiver gave to them nine rings of power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question and one by one they've fallen into darkness. Now they are slaves to his will. They are the Nazgûl, Ringwraiths, neither living nor dead. At all times they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the One. They will never stop hunting you!"_

It was true! Sam remembered the disgusted terror he felt at hearing the ranger's words, but it was little compared to what came to him as they continued their journey to Rivendell. Those nine riders had pursued them relentlessly, shrouded in the dark of night. They had wounded Frodo, nearly sucking him into their sick service with their poisoned blade. They were heartless, mindless, driven to insanity by desire for the Ring. Demons wreathed in the most crazed of quests. Sam had thought the Nazgûl lost or slain, for at Rivendell, where the nine walkers had been formed to face the nine riders, the demons had ceased their torment and seemingly disappeared. Clearly it had been childish folly to think such! Oh, by Elbereth, to be quarry of theirs once more!

"We are in a fix of sorts here, young Gamgee. I had feared this could happen," Gandalf declared almost absently. Sam looked to him slowly, stunned that the strange figure he had happened to notice could yield so much peril.

"Oh, what can we do, Gandalf?" asked the Hobbit meekly. If this searching beast was the lord of the Nazgûl, surely it was more powerful and treacherous than any of its underlings! "It's too dangerous to face!"

Gandalf afforded him a small, amused smile. Sam took reassurance in it and felt his terrified heart slow. "You forget, Sam, that I am dangerous as well. I am no mere conjurer of cheap tricks. I am Gandalf the White." A small grin crept to Sam's ashen face. "Yet I think a confrontation would be best avoided. Let us continue stealthily, and perhaps we may elude it."

The wizard then turned and continued to walk, lifting his smooth rod and using it to maintain his balance upon the precarious rocks. Sam swallowed heavily, unnerved still by the demon that flew overhead. His hand mindlessly came to rest over the Ring, pressing its scolding heat to the flesh of his sternum. _Keep your peace,_he implored, _you little devil! _Then he followed Gandalf.

The night grew darker and deeper as they moved. A few hours passed, but it was hard to tell the passage of time without moon or stars to indicate it. Sam trudged silently behind Gandalf, but his senses were directed elsewhere. He glanced to the sky often, searching the clouds for the strange apparition he knew now to be a threat. His ears he strained, but Mordor was eerie and quiet. The stillness prickled his gooseflesh and riled his nerves. This wretched place! How he longed to be rid of it! Everything here was rank, dark, and dangerous. The spirit of evil seemed to permeate every rock, every pore of the land, and its caress was appalling. The closer they marched to Mount Doom, the heavier the weight of the One Ring became. It was pulling him down, dragging his soul into the darkness, and he was growing weary of the fight. He had never counted himself as strong or as wise as Frodo; he often thought he would fall into the swirling abyss of fire that the Ring threatened. He wondered readily if it, in the end, would defeat him. What twist of fate had placed him in a role not meant to be his? What change of events had dumped upon his weak shoulders a burden that he did not think he could carry? The appearance of this Witch King stirred Sam's skepticism. He felt his hopes darkly dwindle.

So caught in his thoughts was he that he had failed to pay attention to his footing, and on a gentle incline he stepped upon unsettled and loose rocks. The jerk of the fall immediately ripped away his reverie, and his arms pin wheeled as with a crunch the stones below his feet gave way with his weight and his balance tipped. Sam howled in surprise as the world lurched and he slipped backwards down the hill. His body struck the ground and sharp pain flooded through him. He rolled down in a daze, rocks and stones jabbing at his flesh, his stomach heaving and his lungs clenching. Over the rush of the blood in his ears he could hear naught. Forever he seemed to tumble before he struck the bottom. Once there, in a daze he lingered.

Quite a few moments passed before Sam regained his senses enough to hear Gandalf calling to him. The wizard stood atop the outcrop, his white robes glowing in the meager light, his staff held aloft. More distressing still was the shriek that made Gandalf's worried voice all but inaudible. The piercing scream filled the night, high-pitched and ear shattering. Sam sat up in panic, forgetting the pain of his battered limbs. His fingers quickly and frantically came up to his neck and felt about his shirt, but they touched nothing. The Ring must have come free from his neck during the fall! For a moment, this terrible thought failed to elicit any response from his body, fear and shock paralyzing him. Then again came that dreadful howl, and Sam sprung into action.

It was so dark! In the shadow, the glint of the Ring was hidden, and he searched with shaking hands the ground, inquisitive fingers pressing through the hot dirt in desperation. Where was it? Sam's panic consumed him, and hot tears flooded from his eyes.

He heard Gandalf's cry then. There was a burst of light ahead that spread like lightning over the area, and Sam averted his eyes at its brightness. Another wicked screech shattered the quiet, and Sam winced. As the light rapidly faded, a gold glint caught his eyes. The Ring!

Frenzied the Hobbit leapt towards the glimmer as it disappeared from his sight. What he sought lay beneath a narrow ledge, the opening the Ring had precariously rolled through hardly a few inches above the ground. He could barely squeeze his sweaty hand through the narrow space. Sam grunted in panic as he blindly strained his fingers, his eyes blankly scanning the shadows ahead. He cursed himself for his small digits and chubby fist! He would never be able to reach the Ring!

Ahead came the beating of great wings, and Sam screamed. Atop the outcropping was the Witch King. It rode upon a massive stallion of midnight that pawed and clawed at the ground in rage, flapping wings of dark feathers that seemed as mighty as the horse's muscular legs. The Nazgûl was draped in blackness, but its long, pale blade it held aloft, lifting it to the sky. Bloody eyes that glowed red centered upon Sam's paralyzed form. With a howl, it charged down the hill. It was coming to claim its Master's possession!

Sam could not wonder about the whereabouts of Gandalf; the wizard's safety did not cross his mind. He spoke not, traumatized and terrified, and reached even further in painful panic. His heart stopped beating and he could barely find the strength to breathe. Hot sweat dripped down his face. The tips of his fingers brushed upon only cold rock and grimy dirt. The thunder of hoof beats was excruciatingly loud, and the demon was nearly upon him. He would never find it!

Just before the Witch King could strike with its vile blade, Sam's fingers contacted the metal chain of the necklace. Euphoria and panic combined to form a dizzying relief, and the Hobbit grabbed what he had found. He wretched his arm free, lifting the Ring into the night air, and dove to his side. His clumsy, sweaty fingers nearly dropped the trinket, but only the silver chain tumbled into the shadows. The Ring he clenched in his palm tighter than he had ever before held anything.

The Witch King howled, and its mount reared. Sam scrambled back, his body shaking in absolute terror, his feet scraping against the ground as he struggled to put distance between the enemy and himself. The horse snorted and cried, its massive paws smashing the rocks into dust as again they descended with a heavy thud. The wicked sword turned in the gauntlet of the demon. Each finger was tipped by more a knife than a nail.

Petrified, Sam clutched the Ring to his breast and skittered back further. Chilling panic washed over him as his back struck something hard and unforgiving. A rock. He was trapped.

"Hobbit…" hissed the demon. Its breath was a blast of scalding air. The Witch King dismounted its beast with a loud clank of metal and the swish of its cloak of night. Sam watched in shock as the hooked boots of the Nazgûl stepped closer.

The rush of blood in Sam's ears was deafening. "Stay back!" he pleaded in a hoarse voice. The Ring burned in his palm, and the urge to simply drop it and run was a seductive call. He could not, he knew. He could not abandon the Ring to the hands of evil! _He could not! _"Stay away from me!"

The white sword descended with the sound of sliced air. Sam screamed shrilly and scrambled forward as the blade sliced clear through the boulder behind him, reducing rock into dust with one mighty swing. The small creature crawled frantically, feeling a rain of sharp shards descend upon him.

The Witch King would not be deterred. Its fierce silence was more disturbing than its howl as it rounded on him, the pale blade cleaving the air in a long, lighted arc, and Sam sobbed in hopeless fear. There was nothing he could do. He would die here!

A soft caress filled his mind then, warding away the desperation and depression, and he listened to it willingly. It spoke in no language that he could decipher, but the words were a cool balm, soft and soothing. It promised safety, and his panic began to abate. A little thing. A precious thing. It would help him. He escaped in it.

Vaguely he heard a cry. "No, Samwise!" A part of his mind that had not succumbed to the Ring's easing tale moved and cried of logic. Gandalf was alive. Gandalf was shouting to him. _"Do not wear the Ring!"_

But it was too late. In his daze he innocently slipped the burning Ring onto his finger.

The world melted in an explosion of light. The brightest of white that would have put the noon sun to shame bled around him, but it was a bizarre thing, for the illumination was tinged with the darkest of shadows, and suddenly he could see with astounding clarity. There was a great rush of wind yet no sound. Sam felt the air whip around him, raking hot fingers through his hair, and he looked up. In this place burned by white, he felt heavy and slow. Yet he clambered to his feet. His eyes were wide in fear and dismay. The Lord Angmar, once shrouded in the darkest of colors, now was a king. His sallow face was eyeless and shriveled, and his emaciated skin seemed dry and ancient. A great mane of white, stringy hair fell from beneath a pale crown. It was truly a grotesque sight, and Sam screamed. However, his voice made no sound, and he staggered back as the bony hand of the Nazgûl reached towards him. Was this the twilight illusion of the Ring that Frodo had seen? Was this the strange dimension of truth it bestowed upon its bearer?

Sam mindlessly watched, unable to make sense of what he saw. His mind was overloaded, and it simply ceased to try to understand. Behind the Nazgûl came a streak of red light and a dark figure approached in billowing robes waving about a staff. The piercing cry of the king never came to his ears, though he saw the jaw open in fury. It turned, the pale blade blending into the streaking white, as it faced whatever behind it that had troubled it. Sam gasped then as the Witch King battled, its blinding white body burning into his eyes and scarring his heart. He should have thought to run. Instead he stood transfixed and fearful as ahead there was another great burst of red and orange. This was different than what had deterred the demon before him. This was monstrous and perilous.

_The Eye. _

It was all around him, and he could not escape. The fires of its lidless gaze consumed him, peering into him, uncovering his heart and his mind. Its glare was brutal and dangerous, and Sam cowered before it. A great black pupil at its center seemed fathomless, betraying the evil of the observer. Ai, he had been found! The fires licked at his skin and he dropped to his knees, curling himself into a tight, protective ball with his hands over his head, as its peering and unrelenting stare knew every fiber of his being. In this vacuum came the horrible, deep chanting. Over and over again the words spilled from everywhere, filling his mind and driving him mad.

_Take it off_, his mind ordered. His fingers weakly wrapped around the Ring. It tortured him. _Take it off!_

With a cry, he ripped the accursed thing from his finger. In a breath it was all gone. The fire faded, and the twilight disappeared. The gale of the wind abandoned its blustery torment. Disoriented, Sam felt his stomach twist in dry heaves, and he gagged. His whole being shook and quivered with what had just violated him. Such intense evil… A winded sob cracked from his throat, and he wept, damning himself for relenting to the Ring's song!

A hand gripped his shoulder and he looked up in fear, his heart jumping into his dry throat painfully. He immediately worried it was the Witch King, and crushing relief beleaguered him when he met Gandalf's worried gaze. "Stand!" commanded the wizard in a frantic, hushed voice. He was dirty and winded. "We must fly! It will not be long before it returns! Fly!"

Sam was weakly hauled to his feet. Gandalf's old, large, warm hand grasped his own and yanked his numb body into a run. The wizard's white robes filled his vision, but he felt he could not see. A great pit of guilt, terror, and shame sucked down his heart, and Sam lowered his head and cried. He could feel it now. The Ring held tight in his other palm was singing to Mordor, calling to it, as though it had suddenly found itself to be traveling through its home. It was beckoning the black watchers of this land to find it. Undoubtedly the dark spirit of Mordor was returning the twisted melody. The Ring and the evil soul had again found each other, and it was his fault.

Time lost meaning as they ran, and Sam wept piteously. He had failed. He could not undo this! As the wizard and the Hobbit flew across the dead lands of the Dark Lord Sauron, the black night suffocated Sam, and he drowned in his grief. Alas, he was weak indeed! Fate have mercy upon him! He had tried so hard! He could not erase the sight of that fiery watcher from his memory!

The Eye had seen him, and it as well would never forget.

* * *

><p>Something was horribly wrong.<p>

The trees were screaming a warning, but Legolas could not understand what they were trying to tell him. Their forlorn song had twisted into a terrified melody of danger that ripped the dozing, exhausted Elf from restless sleep. A keening wail of impending peril filled his heart with dread. Their alert was strong enough to jostle the disoriented prince into attempting to stand, but his brutalized feet painfully reminded him that they would not support his weight, and he slumped, defeated and frightened. He could do nothing, he realized, but sit and listen.

Legolas' wide eyes darted all around the camp of the Uruk-hai. The beasts were paying him no heed. Though the night was still deep and dark, he could make out the forms of his captors standing among the trees ahead. They seemed engrossed in a matter obscure and hidden from the Elf. Legolas released a slow, painful breath and tried once more to rise. He did not know the nature of this danger that the trees were belting out to him, but he was sure he needed to flee. The air hung still with unsaid and unnatural threat, and it hurt to Elf to breathe it as he grunted quietly. His leg muscles cramped uncooperatively. He cursed himself for his failing endurance and Saruman for his blasted penance! He could not stand, much less run with his feet as such. Panicked, Legolas raised his bound hands up to his mouth and, using his teeth as an anchor upon one of the loops, pulled at the ropes. They were securely fastened; tugging at them did nothing. He had doubted it would, but he could not simply allow himself to be the victim of whatever darkness about which the forest now cried!

His movements had drawn the interest of the Uruk-hai, and Legolas dropped his hands. Chilling desperation stilled his racing heart as their yellow eyes ate at his fear hungrily. He had to get away. The warning rose to a scream in his mind. He had to now!

Aggravated tears burned his eyes as once more he tried to stand. The effort beaded sweat upon his temples and he could not stifle his groan of agony as he carefully yet rapidly tried to put his weight upon his torn feet. The trunk behind him was sympathetic to his plight, providing support to his quivering body, but it did little good. The Uruk-hai laughed heartily at his feeble endeavor and neared him. Legolas tried to take a step but hot pain shot up his calf and knee, and he staggered and fell.

A fist wrapped into his hair as he lay gasping on the ground and hauled him up. There was chatter in Dark Speech and a hearty roar of euphoria. Legolas squeezed his eyes shut as the trees' cry stabbed into his heart. The Orc pitched him forward carelessly, and the young prince stumbled, skidding across the hard forest floor before collapsing once more. For a moment he remained still, gasping for breath, clawing at his composure and his resolve. Then he was made to look skyward.

Saruman smiled broadly. "It seems," he said evenly, his voice betraying no small amount of satisfaction, "that the Halfing to which you delivered the Ring has made the error of wearing it." In his hand the wizard held a peculiar glass orb that swirled of dark blues and purples. It rested innocently upon the white palm, long, elegant fingers clasping it tenderly. "Do look, dear Legolas. See the fate of the one you burdened in the _palantír_, for it knows all things that the Eye sees. See how futile your defiance has become."

He did not want to gaze into the orb, but he found he could not resist. His wide eyes were drawn to its swirling, lulling colors despite his deep desire to avert them and his fear. The tempest of deep hues shattered, burned away by angry flames, and Legolas winced. The Eye of Sauron laughed maliciously as it receded, exposing to him the huddled form of Sam, buffeted and weathered by an unusual gale, quivering in the sight of the great evil power. The Elf stopped breathing. The Hobbit's tiny hands were covering his head. The bright Ring he bore upon one finger. Dear Sam… Clearly Sam had never found Frodo at Amon Hen that day so many weeks ago. The brave, little fellow had obviously taken upon himself a quest meant for greater creatures! What grave tiding had befallen Sam to force him to wear the One Ring? What horrible fate had Legolas pushed upon him? Terror and anger clenched every muscle of his body, and he watched numbly as the vision faded, leaving the glass stone once again as dark and forbidding as night. Shocked, he looked up to the wizard. "You vile monster…" he hissed.

Saruman laughed outright. "Child! The Eye has found the Ring! I told you it would, did I not? I warned you that it was inevitable, unstoppable! This black destiny you have brought upon yourself!" The demented Istar's tone was twisted to almost a high pitch in pure, jovial elation.

Legolas lowered his eyes. Whatever strength and courage had driven him now faded quickly and without regard to his present predicament, leaving him reduced to shuddering in defeat. A tear escaped and streaked down his dirtied cheek as he bit into his quivering lower lip. It could not be! Surely it could not! _Elbereth, protect Sam where I have failed!_

The trees strained their voices, but the warning came to numb ears. In the black sea of suffering and depression that now become the Elf's heart, no light entered. He was lost in the dark waves, gone in the murk of his misery. Everything he had endured… Everything Sam had undergone… Wasted! Oh, his angry heart screamed shrilly in fury where his lips would not!

The silent moment did not last long. Saruman's hand found its way to the Elf's chin, lifting Legolas' ashen face. "My beautiful Elf," he said quietly. In his voice was unspeakable danger, and the trees hollered into the empty night. Legolas jerked, but the nails tightened upon his jaw, holding him immobile. Behind him the Uruk-hai's rough grips upon his shoulders and hair kept him kneeling. Panic slowly crawled into the pit of Legolas' stomach. His pulse raced. He could not break free! Saruman smiled cruelly. "Do you remember what I swore to you the day you became mine?"

Legolas grunted, tears filling his eyes and collecting in a stinging pool. He could hardly breathe. Terror shook him to his very core, and he wriggled vainly. When it become clear he would not answer, Saruman grinned again, arrogant and unfazed. "I told you then," he reminded, his tone, though soft, sounding low and vicious, "that I would rid you of your purity and see the strength of your sick Elf blood fail you. I promised that I would reduce you to nothing but a coward in the darkness, yearning for death. I vowed to make you neither prince nor Elf." Legolas bit into his tongue until the warm bitterness of his blood trickled into his mouth. Saruman was calm as he handed the orb to a nearby, leering Orc. Gently his other hand pressed to the quivering Elf's cheek. "I believe it is time I kept my word. A parting gift, if you will."

The forest shrieked. Before the terrified Legolas could even think to struggle, the wizard's grip turned hard, the long fingers cutting into the flesh of his face. He could not look away as Saruman's black eyes locked unto his own and dug inside him. The wizard was chanting, lowly and quietly, and the words were rough and rotten. The serene gaze crackled with power, and Legolas choked on his sobbing breath as the strangest of sensations came to him through the grip upon him. At first it was merely uncomfortable, crawling over his body with a sick caress of augmenting evil. When it reached his chest, it turned into a consuming fire that burned and ripped. Shear agony coursed over him, and he was helpless in its grasp. Something inside him was dying, crushed by the darkness. He could feel it wither, and it hurt and frightened him like nothing had ever before. The part of his mind still clinging to his sanity ordered his limp body to move, to do anything to prevent this. _No! Fight! _But he was helpless. The pain turned the world violent and white. Saruman's eyes would not release him, and the wizard glowed bloodily in the bleached surroundings. He felt his mind crack, his sight shift, and his heart was raggedly sundered.

The Elf screamed.

The savage deed was done. The trees were weeping.

A quiet moment then passed. Saruman released Legolas. The wizard wobbled a bit, apparently drained and winded from his exertions. He opened his mouth to speak, perhaps to taunt further or gloat his victory, but closed it slowly, for the words would fall to deaf ears. His prisoner had mercifully passed out at his feet.


End file.
